Captive Rage
by wolverette
Summary: Wolverine never escaped from the Weapon X project and they've held him for the last fifteen years, as an assassin for hire. What will happen when they also get their hands on Jubilee? ... Rated M for extreme sexual content and violence.
1. Ground Zero

**Disclaimer: **The X-Men are not mine, nor do I make any profit from the telling of my stories. In my dreams, however, they are ALL mine! MINE, I tell you! *Evil laugh*

*Cough!* Hello, everyone! Welcome to Captive Rage, my new story showcasing the talents of Wolverine and Jubilee! Despite the many Rogans I have dabbled in over the past few months, my loyal readers will know that my heart truly lies with the feral and his firecracker and, thanks to recent developments within the pages of the latest X-men offerings from Marvel, I have been inspired to go back to my roots and pen a new romance! This story has been rattling around in my head for some time now and I just couldn't ignore it any longer, so I hope you all enjoy!

Before we start, here's a little info on the backstory that you may find helpful ... Wolverine never escaped from the original Weapon X project and has been held there for the past fifteen years. Jubilee joined the X-Men at the age of fourteen, after following Storm, Dazzler and Psylocke through the portal that led to their base in Australia, and became part of the team after being discovered hiding in the generator room! M-Day never happened, so all mutants still have their powers - however, the mutant population explosion never happened either, so mutants are still relatively rare and sought after by those who would use their powers for their own gain. Jubilee is now twenty years old ...

So there you go! Hope you all enjoy the first chapter and if you feel so inclined, I would love to read your reviews!

**ooXoo**

**Captive Rage**

**Chapter 1. Ground Zero**

By the time the local police realised they were outmatched, two hostages were dead and the undercover cop sent in to negotiate their release was bleeding his lifeblood into the snow that covered Senator MacMillan's front lawn. All attempts to secure his rescue were met by a blizzard of opposing fire from the semi-automatic wielding thugs stationed in several of the mansion's upper windows. Forced into cover behind their own bullet-ridden vehicles, they were tortured by the pained cries of their injured comrade and reminded that sometimes good intentions and a smart blue uniform just weren't enough to get the job done.

Frantic messages filled the airwaves. Reinforcements were sought and subsequently promised by the calm-voiced radio operatives who were safe in the warmth and security of the main precinct. By the time the SWAT team arrived, the hostage-takers had made their demands public - $50.000.000 and Senator MacMillan, his family and staff would be allowed to go free. Sergeant Powell, officer commanding, and Captain Hawkins of the SWAT team didn't believe this for one second. However, in an attempt to buy time, the SWAT Captain agreed to the demands on the provision they could retrieve their injured man. The boon was duly granted.

The casualty was pulled to safety by two nervous but determined volunteers and loaded quickly aboard a waiting ambulance. Its departure was watched by every one of the fifty strong police presence and ten SWAT team members, each one wondering just how many of them would be joining that first casualty before the night was over. Because they all knew that the hostage-takers could not be allowed to prevail. They had to be stopped at all costs, even if it meant that the lives of more innocent civilians and police officers alike could be ended. The message had to be sent, loud and clear, for all those who thought to target those weaker than themselves for their own personal gain – terrorism would not be tolerated.

Captain Hawkins began to position his men, sending them out to surround the Senator's mansion under cover of the snowstorm which was beginning to sweep in from the north. Police marksmen, watching the house through the laser sights of their high-powered assault rifles, reported activity behind the curtained windows. The hostage-takers were preparing to fight back.

Concern for the safety of the Senator and his family made Hawkins hold off on the order to attack just long enough for a call to come through on a secure channel from his superiors. Turning away from the chill wind in order to focus on the tinny voice coming through his field radio, Hawkins felt his face pale as white as the snow that was falling around him as the dread news was conveyed. Noting the detached way in which he terminated the call and stared through the swirling snow at the mansion, Sergeant Powell ducked along the line of haphazardly parked police cruisers to Hawkins' side, silently conveying his concern with a raised eyebrow. Their new orders, voiced in flat tones by the SWAT Captain, brought a spike of fear to his heart.

They were to stand down and place command of the situation into other hands.

The Weapon X Operatives were on their way …..

**oooOOOooo**

The modified Black Hawk helicopter came in to land on the roadway beyond the mansion's outer perimeter, touching down expertly in the center of the cordon set up by the police and whirling snow into the faces of the two men waiting to meet it. As the side door slid open, they exchanged uneasy glances, fearful of what waited within the helicopter's dark interior. Neither of them had had dealings with the Weapon X Operatives before, but the team's reputation preceded it and spoke of men determined to get the job done by whatever means necessary. Their motto was 'The Best There Is' and they did their utmost to live up to it.

Expecting the helicopter to spew forth a full team of heavily armed army types, Hawkins and Powell were surprised by the single khaki-clad soldier who hopped down to the ground and trotted towards them with his semi-automatic repeater rifle slung casually over his shoulder. He shook hands with the two men, introduced himself as Peters – no rank, no number, Powell noted – and then gestured towards the mansion with a nod of his head.

"So, what have we got?"

"Twelve terrorists, possibly more. Roughly the same number of hostages." Captain Hawkins was all calm professionalism, unwilling to let the fact that the newcomer was at least ten years his junior put him off his stride. There was a job to be done – innocents to rescue – and did it really matter who accomplished the deed as long as the results were the same? "We believe four of the suspects have the hostages pinned down in the dining room. The rest are covering the grounds from the upstairs windows."

"Good. That's more or less what we expected." Peters nodded and unslung his rifle. "I take it we have the full co-operation of your people?"

"Of course!"

"Excellent. Then I want you to pull your people back, well away from the house. Our man needs full anonymity."

"Your ….. your _man?"_ Powell shook his head, confused. "You're sending one _man_ in there?"

"That's the idea." Peters grinned, an action totally at odds with the severity of the situation.

"But ….."

"Look, you don't have to understand this, just let us do our job. All we need is to be left alone and we'll get your Senator out for you. We don't need any police back-up, no medical assist and, above all, no police spotters. Our man works alone. You understand me?"

The words were spoken without malice, yet behind them was the threat of retribution if they were questioned. Hawkins considered this for a split second before nodding. "I'll go and pull the men back."

"Do it real quite-like. We don't want to let the terrorists know we're coming."

Hawkins moved away to carry out his words and Peters gestured towards the house. "Let's get this show on the road, shall we?" He flipped down the small two-way radio attached to his ear-piece, turning to face the helicopter, which was still standing silently in the middle of the road with its rotors slowly winding down. "Alright, everything's set here. Bring him out."

"Copy that. On our way."

There was a moment's pause before a second khaki-clad soldier stepped from the helicopter, holding on to the end of a metal leash which trailed back into the darkened interior. As the chain tightened, he gave it a tug, forcing another man out into the open.

Powell felt his blood run cold ….

The newcomer was dressed in khaki's like his companions, but here the similarities ended. Where the soldiers held themselves with the calm assurance of men trained to fight, _this_ man looked as though he had been _born_ to fight. His gait, although light for a man of his size, gave the impression that he was poised on the edge, ready to spring into action at any moment, and his eyes flicked back and forth constantly, checking everything out and missing nothing.

It was like watching the reactions of an animal trapped in a man's body …..

The soldier led his charge over, tugging on the leash to get him moving. The closer he came, the more Powell felt as though he was in the presence of a merciless predator who would not hesitate to tear his throat out if he so much as moved wrong. The eyes that checked him out so suspiciously were dark and devoid of emotion and he swallowed nervously, feeling like a rabbit caught in the headlights of an approaching car – knowing danger was bearing down on him and unable to do anything about it.

He would never admit it, but he felt extremely relieved to see Hawkins returning. The SWAT Captain slipped in the snow as he approached and the man on the leash startled, growling warningly and dropping into a slight crouch as though intending to spring. His handler gave the chain a sharp tug.

Hawkins eyed the chained man warily and Peters grinned. "Don't mind him, he's just tetchy at being out in the snow. He hates being wet." He clasped his hands and rubbed them together. "He's definitely got a point though – it's cold out here. Maybe if you lead me an' Hanley to the house we could get this over with and return to our warm beds?"

Confused by the Operatives' intentions, but determined not to show it, Hawkins led the way through the police cordon towards the house, trying to ignore the sound of growling coming from behind him. It was an unearthly and eerie sound, and it unnerved him, being reminiscent of a rabid dog …..

As they ran across the snow-covered driveway and ducked into the protecting cover of a police cruiser, the storm intensified, swirling icy cold flakes of snow into their faces and partially obscuring their view of the house.

Maybe this was the reason they missed noticing the sleek black jet that hovered stealthily above them in the night sky …..?

**oooOOOooo**

There's blood in the snow – I can smell it. It draws me like a magnet an' I try to move towards it only to be pulled up short by my leash. I growl my disapproval, but allow myself to be led towards a row o' vehicles parked just beyond the driveway. A sharp tug on my leash brings me to my knees when I would have remained standing.

My handlers begin discussing hostage placement, but the words are meaningless to me. I know why I was brought here an' my heart is poundin' with the anticipation o' doing what I was born to do. Somewhere in that building are men I am expected to kill and, whether they deserve it or not, I will carry out my duty without question. To do any less would be to invite pain an' severe punishment. I am no stranger to the kind o' punishment my handlers are capable o' dishing out. I've resisted their orders a time or two – sometimes still do, when the boredom takes me – but these days I can hardly be bothered any more. What's the point?

I move slowly towards the back end o' the vehicle at a crouch, peerin' around the bumper at the dark shape o' the house. Already my analytical mind is assessing the best way to approach unseen, takin' note of every stretch o' open space between me an' the house. A curtain twitches in one o' the upstairs windows, drawin' my attention immediately. I doubt anyone but me coulda seen it at this distance without some form of optical aid. The hostage-takers are obviously on the look-out for trouble – an' they're gonna get it in spades.

_They won't know what's hit 'em …_

A surprisingly gentle tug on my leash turns my attention back to my handlers. Hanley is smiling at me indulgently, makin' me feel like a beloved pet who's just learned a new trick. I'd like to show him a trick or two just for his attitude an' I know he won't like 'em, but I settle for baring my teeth at him as I crawl back to his side.

He reaches out to ruffle my hair fondly an' I force myself not to recoil. "You wanna get going, don't you, boy? You wanna teach those bastards a lesson? Well, we'll just get this leash off …"

I try not to appear too eager as the metal chain is unclipped from my collar, resistin' the sudden urge to take off into the night. The darkness an' the drivin' snow would no doubt cover my escape, an' Peters an' Hanley can't track worth a damn – it'd be easy to evade their clumsy attempts to reacquire me. I can't, however, evade the collar I am still wearin'. It ain't there just for show – it's my handlers' guarantee that I'll come back after I've completed my mission. If I don't – or if I take off – all they have to do is activate it an' the homin' signal will lead 'em right to my smokin' body.

I can't outrun it an' I can't get it off. Believe me, I've tried. So until another option comes along, looks like I'm in this for the duration.

Hanley pockets my leash an' gives me the signal to 'go'. "Go get 'em, boy," he tells me, uselessly.

"Wait a minute, are you just going to send him in there unarmed?" One o' the uniforms speaks up an' I swivel on the ball o' my foot to bare my teeth at him. He does his best not to notice, but his companion reeks o' fear now an' it's startin' to put me on edge. "He'll be torn to pieces! At least give him the god-damn rifle!"

"He doesn't need it. He's trained to fight one-on-one, and we'd rather _that _little nugget didn't get out, for security reasons." Peters notices me still hangin' around an' gives me the signal again. "Go, god-dammit! What're you waiting for? An invitation?"

I go before I have to be told again, duckin' into the cover provided by the next vehicle along an' then sprintin' across a stretch o' lawn to a snow-laden lilac bush. From there, it's an easy path to the back door, where I flatten myself against the wall an' take stock o' my surroundings. There are residual traces o' several scents here – most probably belong to the servants an' tradesmen, but several are mixed with gun oil an' I know for a fact that your common-or-garden delivery man don't carry firearms along with the daily bread. So this is where the hostage-takers gained entry to the house. Figures. Once inside, it would be an easy matter to spread throughout the house, takin' their hostages as they went. It's what I woulda done.

The snow is comin' thick an' fast now an' I tilt my face to the sky an' let it fall on my face. For a moment, it seems as though I am being anointed with its virgin innocence an' then it melts, driven away by the rage that is lurkin' within me. Nothin' remains untouched by me for long – I taint everything with the evil in my soul.

Not surprisingly, the door is locked, but this succumbs quickly when a single claw is introduced to its inner workings. I slip through into a silent an' darkened kitchen, filled with the stench o' overdone meat an' burnt pans – it seems the servants were taken by surprise while preparing the evening meal. I take a moment to filter through the pungent smell, snortin' as it catches at the back o' my throat. The scent o' gun oil leads across the room to another door, along with several others which must belong to the captured staff. I dismiss those immediately as unimportant, although I tag them for future recognition. If it comes to a fight – an' it will, I have no doubts on that score – I need to know I'm not about to plunge my claws into a helpless hostage.

I move silently to the opposite door, the boots I am wearin' makin' scarcely a sound on the tiled floor despite their clumsy weight. I would prefer to hunt barefoot, but my handlers insist on certain priorities being met an' wearin' normal human clothin' while on a take-down is one of 'em. I loathe the restrictions these garments impose on me – every move feels clumsy in comparison to how nature intended, an' I resist the impulse to rip the hateful evidence o' my captivity away an' hunt my prey unencumbered – the way my nature demands. But I am not a fool. To do so would only invite the pain o' the collar.

The hallway beyond the door is dark an' silent an' empty of anyone to vent my frustrations on. The scents split here – four of the prey an' the staff go to the right, the rest to the left. I immediately turn left. The men watchin' over the hostages are not important at this time. My priority is to take down their back-up before I engage the final assault.

_Divide an' conquer – jus' the way I like it._

The hallways turns a corner further on an' I flatten myself to the wall an' peer around it cautiously. Prey is standin' only a few feet away, armed to the teeth an' guardin' the bottom of a sweepin' staircase. His fancy weapons do him no good at all as I leap from the shadows an' bear him down to the ground, a single claw slittin' his throat before he can even scream. I stand over him as his lifeblood gushes out to soak the expensive carpet an' the carnal scent of it reaches deep inside, releasin' the essence o' the beast, who snarls at the fresh kill an' demands more.

I don't try to hold it back - I welcome it. I welcome the edge the beast's strength gives me an' I gladly put my soul in its hands for the chance to kill an' main as my true nature demands of me. I only wish it were the hearts o' my handlers that could feel my blades' caress, but I'll make do with whoever crosses my path this night. The snarl on my lips passes judgement on them before I even know their names.

By the time I take the stairs two at a time, I am fully feral an' eager for blood …..

**NEXT: **Jubilee!


	2. Ballistic Evidence

Hey, everyone! So sorry for taking such a long time to update! The truth is, this chapter has been finished for some time, but I haven't been able to upload. Some glitch on the site was stopping me from adding any further chapters, so I am extremely grateful to moviemom44 for coming to my rescue with a way around this! I am forever in her debt, and my sanity - and that of my husband's also - has been saved!

Had some wonderful reviews to the first chapter! Major thanks and kudos to **immiD, Laudine, MidLifeCrisis, nileena, CaptMacKenzie, Wolvierules88, fallunder, Katya Jade, Chandraleila, pinkskyline, TheJamesS **and **Shadowspy! **It's nice to see some of my regular readers following this story too, but I also seem to have picked up one or two newbies, and to you guys I say 'welcome aboard - I hope you enjoy the ride!'

And now, onward - our adventure continues ...!

**ooXoo**

**2. Ballistic Evidence**

It's a delicate operation.

Almost holding my breath, I lean forward to carefully administer the precious liquid in precise strokes. Reality blurs around me as my focus shifts to the inevitable. Time has no meaning in the pursuit of perfection.

I've almost finished when the sound of stealth-muted jet engines announces the imminent arrival of our Shi-ar enhanced SR-71 Blackbird. Momentarily distracted, I look up to the ceiling, mentally plotting the path of the jet as it flies over the school and begins its descent to the hanger, hidden discreetly away beneath the basketball courts. As the sound of its engines dies away, I return my attention to the task at hand, skilfully applying a final swipe of my favourite yellow nail polish to my left big toe.

_Yep, that'll go nicely with my new black sandals._

"Sounds like the big guns have returned." Kitty Pryde, my best friend and preferred partner-in-crime, turns from her perusal of the bottles of nail polish lined up on my dresser. "What about this one, Jubes?"

"No, definitely not that one, Kit. It'll clash with Lockheed. Try the green one."

"This?"

"That's the one."

Putting down her original choice – Sinful Scarlet – Kitty grabs the green and comes to sit beside me on the bed. It bounces as she settles herself against the pillows, rousing the little creature curled up like a cat at the bottom of the comforter.

But _so_ not a cat. Lockheed. Kitty's pet dragon – actually an alien from another freaking planet, would you believe? – and the reason for the clashing nail polish, thanks to his purple-grey hue.

Kitty unscrews the bottle cap and holds it out for Lockheed's approval. "What do you think, dragon? You like?"

Lockheed shuffles closer to investigate, a tiny tendril of flame licking around his nostrils, and I grab Kitty's arm. "Geez, Kit, you trying to live dangerously? That stuff's flammable, y'know!"

"You're a wuss, didya know that, Jubes?" Kitty pouts prettily and begins to paint the nails of her left hand. Lockheed, already bored, yawns widely and curls up once more with his nose on his tail.

"Not a wuss, Kit, just a girl who's protective of her precious comforter. I bought this with my own hard-earned money and I don't want to see it go up in smoke because you were careless with the purple firestarter." Lockheed opens an eye at this point and gives me a baleful glance. Did I mention that he's sentient and can understand every word I say? No? Consider this little oversight duly corrected.

Undeterred by the dragon's evil eye, I barrel on, confident that the presence of his mistress will discourage him from turning me into a crispy critter. Or maybe eating me. After the effort I've put into doing my nails, I don't relish either option. "Besides, after that fiasco with the microwave, I do not want to have to explain to the Professor why another room needs redecorating."

Kitty giggles, a childish sound totally at odds with her twenty-five years. She's three years older than me and has been an X-Man since the age of fourteen, recruited to the team during some fracas with the Hellfire Club. My own induction to the team was somewhat less simple. Where Kitty was welcomed with open arms and promises of a brighter future, I was regarded by many of the trainees as a liability right from the start, due to being found lurking in the basement of their current Australian hideout after following three of their number through a portal of some kind. I spent months spying on my new housemates, wary of whether to trust them or not, but the moment I figured out who, and what, they were, I knew I had finally found a place where I could truly belong – I had lived rough on the streets for so long previously that even the system had washed its hands of me – yet my path to becoming a fully-fledged X-Man was strewn with more obstacles than I could shake a stick at. Without a family or a guardian to sponsor my admission to the team, I had to work hard to throw off the image I had unwittingly branded myself with – that of a streetwise kid who didn't give a damn about anything or anyone. In reality, I was a washed-out mess, starved of attention and desperately missing the love of a murdered family. Kitty, darling of the team and co-founder of the now defunct X-Caliber, saw through my bluster right from day one and somehow we became firm friends. It was she who finally sponsored my graduation to the elite team. In me, I suppose she could see herself had things not been so silver-lined and that – as they say – was that.

So. Here I am, four years on and a fully paid up member of the elite team at the age of twenty (and a bit) and I am currently considering the application of nail art to my freshly painted fingers and toes.

A girl's gotta put these things in perspective, right?

Kitty has painted the nails of her left hand and now takes the little brush between those easily smudged fingers, frowning in concentration as she applies the polish just so with a hand that obviously feels as uncoordinated as it looks. I am just reaching for some sparkly stick on stars from the bedside table when a not unpleasant tingling in my head announces the imminent arrival of a psychic email. Seconds later, Professor Xavier's rich tones beam full-force into my mind.

_***Senior X-Men, assemble in the War Room, immediately***_

"Rats." Kitty sighs and stoppers her bottle of polish. "Just ten more minutes and I would have been done. Now I've got to look like a complete moron with a half-painted hand."

"Consider yourself lucky," I snort, swinging my legs over the side of the bed and feeling around for my sneakers. I mourn my nice nails as I stuff my feet inside – by the time I take them off again the polish will be scuffed and probably covered in bits of fluff.

This had better be an emergency of earth-shattering proportions or there will be fireworks.

Literally.

Kitty is already at the door. As she opens it, Lockheed flaps across the room and settles into his customary place around her neck. She gives him a little pat as I join her and then we are off, heading at a brisk walk for the elevator that leads to the lower levels. The house is silent around us. It's almost eleven and most of the youngsters have already turned in for the night. Many have Danger Room training in the morning and need a good night's sleep for whatever our fearless leader is planning on throwing at them. Recalling my own training, I wouldn't be in their shoes for all the tea in China.

We meet our resident Cajun in the hallway downstairs. He's dressed to kill – navy pants, cream silk shirt and a pale blue scarf hanging rakishly around his neck. I'm guessing he's either going out on a date or just coming back from one. Closer inspection reveals unmussed hair and no suspicious lipstick marks on either his face or collar. He's gonna be real pissed tonight then. Xavier caught him on the way out.

His face giving nothing away, Remy rides down to the lower levels with us and steps back like the gentleman he is to allow me an' Kitty to exit first. Our sneakers make virtually zero noise on the highly polished floor, but Remy's shoe heels echo smartly around us as we make our way down the shiny metal corridor to the two X-styled doors that mark the entrance to the War Room. They rumble open as we approach, allowing us to enter.

The rest of the team have beaten us to it. The Beast is still wearing his white lab coat, which means he was probably playing mad scientist when Xavier's call came through and was just a hop, skip and jump away in the lab down the hallway. Likewise for Iceman, who is suited up. His skin is coated with a fine sheen of ice and he looks a mite breathless as he raises a hand in greeting. I hope he remembered to cancel the Danger Room programme when he left at the run.

The rest of the team, Cyclops, Storm, Phoenix and Rogue – all members of the Blackbird's flight crew this evening – are gathered around the wall monitors, where Cyclops is loading a disc into the player. As Kitty an' Remy an' me move quickly to join them, we catch the tail-end of his explanation to Xavier.

"….. they arrived right before we did, Professor, so there was nothing we could do. Knowing their reputation, we decided to lie low and observe."

"A wise decision, Scott." Xavier nods as we join them and I make myself comfortable by propping a hip against the conference table. Kitty, however, peers at the monitor, which is currently showing a frozen image of a snow-enshrouded helicopter.

"Is that a Black Hawk? It doesn't look right."

"It's been modified," Scott tells her.

"Why?"

"Because it belongs to the Weapon X Operatives."

Kitty and I both gasp in tandem and I hear a muted '_Mon Dieu_' from Gambit. To mutants, the Weapon X Ops are akin to the proverbial bogeyman. They are rumoured to exist above and beyond the law, capturing mutants who are then sold off to the highest bidder or trained internally as expendable assets. Somehow, I guess I always assumed they were just a ruse used to frighten children into eating their greens or being good, but seeing that helicopter on screen chills me to the bone.

"Let it run, Scott," orders the Professor, and our fearless leader nods, setting the image in motion with a stab of a gloved finger to a button.

I feel Iceman move in beside me as we watch a khaki-clad X-Op exit from the helicopter. He talks briefly to the two cops in charge and then turns back to the Hawk. Another X-Op, this one holding a chain, and then …..

_Oh my god …_

The man at the other end of that chain is something else entirely and my heart lurches at the sight of him. The way he moves is hypnotic – he's like a panther, all muscle and deadly feline grace. Even from a screen, the easy menace he exudes makes my hair stand on end and my palms sweat.

"Mutant?" asks Remy.

"Undoubtably, considering the chain," responds the Professor, thoughtfully. "But is his captivity willing or forced, I wonder?"

The scene continues to play out on screen, as the men duck into the shelter of a police cruiser and begin to discuss tactics. But the mutant isn't listening. He moves away as far as the chain will allow and surveys the grounds with shrewd eyes. When his shoulders hunch, I swear I can see him … sniffing? Is that his mutant ability? Can he track like a dog? No, there's more to him than that, I'm sure of it."

"God, this is awful." Kitty's eyes are sad as she follows the drama on screen. "No man should be chained. It's barbaric."

"He doesn't seem to be fighting it. Maybe he was born to the Weapon X project?" offers Storm. "There have been rumours ….."

"God, yes, I hadn't thought of that." Scott pauses the playback and jabs his fingers through his hair, mussing its precise style. "This opens up a whole new can of worms."

Rogue shakes her head. "No, wait up, Scott, that can't be right. He's what? Thirty ….. thirty-five? The project hasn't been active for that long."

"Or has it?" asks Bobby, mysteriously.

Several pairs of eyes slide worriedly in his direction, before the Professor clears his throat discreetly, bringing the ball squarely back to his court. "Before we go off half-cocked, maybe we should review what we know about the Weapon X Operatives. Henry?"

Our blue-furred Doc looks unashamedly pleased to be called upon for information, but takes the time to push his glasses back up his nose before answering. "The Weapon X project first came into the public eye in the early eighties, Professor. They were obsessed with producing living weapons and, to that end, many mutants disappeared behind its red tape never to be seen or heard from again. An accident in the late nineteen-nineties caused the project to be shut down, once and for all."

"Accident?" asks Kitty.

Henry fixes each of us in turn with a steady gaze. "Some say that the government finally gave in to public demand and pulled the plug. Others, that a mutant tried to escape and killed most of the directors." He shrugs. "Your guess is as good as mine."

"And now?" I ask, softly. My eyes are glued to that figure hunched in the snow, almost obscured by the frozen flakes swirling around him.

Henry shakes his head, apologetically. "There's not much more to my knowledge, I'm afraid. After the accident, the project and all its assets were sold off to the highest bidder."

"Assets?" asks Jean, a frown marring her perfect features.

"You mean, mutants?" This from Kitty, who looks to be struggling to hold on to her last meal. Lockheed fists his little paws into her hair and coos softly in her ear, seeking to calm his mistress and, just for a moment, I wish someone would whisper soothing words into _my_ ear too. Because I feel sick. Sick to the stomach that folks who consider themselves civilised could sell their fellow human beings into slavery like cattle. It's disgusting. I thought the slave trade had died out years ago. Obviously, it hasn't. At least, not if you're a mutant.

Taking a deep breath to calm my stomach and my mind, I force my attention back to the conversation going on around me.

"So how are they able to keep the whole operation secret?" asks Bobby, with a deep frown. He gestures towards the screen. "I mean, there has to be at least thirty cops there, right? Not to mention camera crews and civilian onlookers. What gives?"

"Mind control?" offers Storm. Her blue eyes look troubled as she turns to one of our resident telepaths. "That is your department, Jean. Is it possible that so many people could be made to forget an event they have witnessed or participated in?"

"In a word? Yes." Jean looks to the Professor for confirmation. "Any telepath can manipulate thoughts and memories to a greater or lesser degree. Although to alter the memories of so many at once would take a great deal of fine control."

"So dose people – de cops – dey are goin' to remember not'ing come tomorrow, _oui?"_

Jean shrugs. "Probably not. Professor?"

"It's worth looking into," agrees the Professor, instantly picking up on Jean's intent. "We'll start first thing in the morning. In the meantime …. Scott, if you please."

Our fearless leader nods, and resumes the playback. Once again, my eyes are drawn unerringly to the figure on screen, as though he is the magnet and my body the helpless slave to its relentless pull. I don't know why I am reacting like this and, for a fleeting moment, I feel a flash of fear before I can force myself to relax and think sensibly. He won't hurt me ….. right? He's just an image on a screen, for Chrissakes!

I hear a snort of anger from Henry as one of the X-Ops reaches out to pat the mutant on the head – like a flaming dog! The leash is removed and then he is on the move, sprinting across the lawn like a ghost and … god, he's so beautiful ….. He moves with the fluid grace of a predator on the hunt. No effort, no fuss. Just a single-minded purpose.

He flattens himself against the wall of the house and seems to be checking for scents, because I swear I can see him sniffing the air. His actions remind me strangely of the Beast and I glance quickly towards our blue-furred doc, wondering if he can also see the resemblance. His features are creased into a thoughtful frown and I look back to the screen just in time to see the mutant tip back his head and allow the snow to fall on his face. Scott fiddles with a switch and suddenly we are viewing the image in frozen and vivid close-up, every detail enhanced by the wonder of Shi-ar technology.

"Think you can do anything with that, Henry?" asks Scott.

"Consider it done." The doctor moves forward to capture the mutant's image on a pad, which he transfers deftly to a nearby monitor. His fingers fairly fly across the virtual keyboard as he begins to search databases for clues to the captive's identity, while playback is resumed once more.

The mutant's face is startlingly beautiful, not marred in any way by hard lines and a strong jaw. His hair is glossy raven black, which rises into crests at either side of his head. But it's his eyes that force me to take an involuntary step back, almost bumping into Bobby and murmuring an embarrassed apology. They are the most brilliant icy blue I have ever seen and they pierce me to the very soul. They are fierce with unhidden intent, but there's also a sadness in their cerulean depths which hints at the horrors they have witnessed. They are the eyes of a tortured soul.

"What the hell is he?" Bobby's strained query breaks the spell and I blink as though coming out of a trance. Somehow managing to keep my breath steady, I try to look composed as Henry swivels his chair to look at our screen.

"You know, I do believe he could be feral," the doc announces, triumphantly.

"Feral?" Storm's face is all confused frowns.

"Yes. Ferals are mutants, like us, but their evolutional origins are quite unique. Some say they are evolved from wolves."

"You have got to be kidding! Right?" Bobby clearly doesn't know whether to believe our furry doc and I'm right there with him. I mean ….. _come on! Wolves?_

Henry adjusts his glasses, his usual prelude to a lecture. "I am not kidding, young man, I can assure you of that. I myself have had the opportunity to study the species on several occasions. They are wild creatures, prone to violence and generally of limited intelligence. Though it shames me to admit it, they are usually no better than animals."

"Isn't that a bit harsh, Henry? It's not like you to be so judgmental." This from Jean, who has known the Beast longer than anyone here, bar the Professor.

Henry shrugs. "I am merely stating the facts."

"Well, I don't care who or what he is, he is still a human being and he deserves to be treated like one. That damned X-Op just patted him like a freaking dog!" Kitty is clearly upset by the whole affair. Her body is practically vibrating with emotion and I inch nearer to show my support. She flashes me a grateful smile.

"That isn't the worst of it," growls Scott, his lips a tight line against his jaw. "Keep watching."

As a unit we all turn back to the screen, which now only shows an empty doorway, the ….. feral? ….. presumably having slipped inside the house while we were debating his lineage. Scott returns the viewing aspect to normal as the camera does a slow pan across the grounds, focusing for a moment on the two cops and the X-Ops. The snow is so heavy now that I idly wonder if Storm manipulated the conditions slightly to hide the Blackbird's presence.

For a long time nothing happens. But then a group of people suddenly break from the house and run across the lawn, stumbling in their haste to reach the safety of the police cordon. Given the way a group of paramedics rush forward to fling blankets around their shoulders, I presume this is the Senator and his family. The camera lingers to show them being led away and then flips abruptly back to the house, where the feral has reappeared in the doorway …. and I gasp in shock.

He's covered in blood …

Even from a distance we can see the aggression that seems to be rolling off him in waves. His body is hunched and tense and, as one of the X-Ops approaches, his head swings around as though targeting his next victim.

The Mexican stand-off that follows is short and punctuated by the feral taking halting steps forward as though calculating the probability of a successful take-down. Then the X-Op produces a small device something like a TV remote. He points it at the feral…

Blue lightening flares around his body, forcing it into a posture that hints of absolute agony. He spasms once ….. twice … then drops to the ground like a deadweight. The lightening fades away as smoke lifts lazily from his prone form.

There is a moment of absolute stunned silence …

"Oh my god!" Finally from Bobby. "What the hell was that?"

I think I've been struck speechless. My throat feels tight and my heart is beating so heavily I can barely breathe. Struggling to pull myself together, I glance around at my team-mates. Everyone seems similarly affected by the callous treatment of the feral. The Blackbird crew, for whom this is obviously a second time viewing, are no less affected. There's a tightness to their jawlines which suggests at teeth being clenched in anger.

"It would appear that the X-Op project has finally found a way to control an enraged feral." Henry seems almost gleeful in his speculations, his scientific instincts obviously having being fired up again and honestly I could brain him with something heavy for ignoring the bigger picture. A fellow mutant has just been fried, for Chrissakes! Hello!

Xavier nudges Scott out of the way with his chair. "The man seemed to be speaking just before he operated that device. Can you back up and give us audio, Scott?"

"Yes, Professor."

I turn away as the feral's body lurches obscenely from the floor in reverse, trying to pretend my hair is caught in my earring. When a strange noise issues from the speakers, I look back at the screen in surprise.

"Is that …..? M'ah god, he's growling!"

Rogue's right. The feral's lips are drawn back and he's snarling like an enraged pitbull, I kid you not.

"_Stand down, Wolverine. Stand down right now. Or honest to god, I'll fry you where you stand."_

"Henry!" barks the Professor, over the backdrop of more growling.

"I'm already on it, Professor!"

And so he is, his brow furrowed as he concentrates on the task at hand. The name 'Wolverine' has piqued his interest and given him new purpose.

As the feral on screen hits the ground for the second time, my mind begins to wander, zoning out everything around me.

_Wolverine …._

Who are you?

Man? Or animal?

But, more importantly ….. are you still alive …?

**oooOOOooo**

Hanley breathed out a cloud of cigarette smoke and leaned on the observation deck's railing, his eyes roving over the sterile bleakness of the lab laid out below. He knew he shouldn't be smoking here and he also knew he would be in for one hell of a reprimand if he was caught, but right now he needed a smoke like he needed to breathe and this was the first opportunity he'd had to light up since checking in. As long as he kept the stick hidden from the lab guys working below, he figured he was in the clear. It was a calculated risk and he knew it, but he just hadn't had the heart to clock off until he'd checked on his boy.

Soft footsteps sounded behind him and he momentarily stiffened, but it was only his partner and best buddy, Peters. The fellow X-Op's eyes went to the stick half hidden in his hand but he said nothing, coming instead to lean on the railing beside his partner, his attention focused below.

"What do you think set him off?" he finally asked, in a low voice designed not to carry.

Hanley sighed and shook his head. "Who knows? Coulda been anything. He's unpredictable at the best of times."

He winced as the focus of their conversation snapped at the hand of one of the lab guys as it came too close. The feral was firmly restrained, naked and snarling, to an operating table in the center of the lab, but even tied down as he was he would still find a way to inflict damage on the careless and unwary. Hanley had seen it happen more times than he could care to remember. The feral was untamed and aggressive and needed the utmost care, but it was why he was one of their best weapons.

"You did the right thing, you know." Peters turned sideways on to the railing, eyeing his friend sharply. "If you hadn't, he'd have jumped you, and you know you wouldn't be standing there right now if you'd gone down. Most likely, you'd be getting acquainted with the guys in the morgue."

"I know that, dammit!" Hanley stubbed out his cigarette on the railing and thrust the stub into one of his jacket pockets. "Knowing that and understanding that Wolverine has to be punished for disobeying an order doesn't make the truth any easier to stomach. He's been fairly docile for weeks now. I was really beginning to think that we were making some progress with him."

"You're delusional, you know that, right?" Peters saw no reason to mince his words. "Wolverine has been with the project almost since its inception. If the original guys didn't manage to tame him, what makes you think you'll fare any better?"

"I dunno, but …." Hanley broke off and turned away from the railing as one of the whitecoats below approached Wolverine's table with a small drill. "Christ, I need a drink. Wanna go to Screamers?"

Peters nodded and considered his next words carefully before speaking. "Look, if it'll make you feel any easier, why don't you take a female to his cell when they've finished? Marking his territory with a kill always seems to calm him and I understand one of the new breeders has turned out to be infertile. You'd be doing the whitecoats a favour by getting rid of her."

Hanley nodded as the sound of the drill drifted up from below. "Yeah, I'll do that. It'll piss the cleaners off too. Lazy bastards!"

"Attaboy!" Peters clapped his friend on the back as they moved to the door, Hanley propping it open for this partner to exit first. He chuckled, the torture behind them already forgotten. "The first round's on me."

"Too right, mate. And the next. I happen to know you get paid more than I do."

"Bugger …."

**NEXT: **A pair of icy blue eyes haunts Jubilee's dreams!


	3. Twice Blue

Hey, everyone! Thank you so much for the positive response you've all given to the start of this new story! I am totally blown away by your continued interest and I hope I can continue to enthrall and excite you with further chapters! Hang onto something - it's gonna be a bumpy ride!

I feel it only fair to warn you at this point that my uploading of new chapters may be a tad spasmodic. I'm going through a really rough patch in my life right now and, while I will continue to write and upload as often as I can, there may be days when my muse escapes me and the words don't come to me as easily as they should. Please be assured that I will NEVER leave a story unfinished - you, my readers, mean far more to me than I could ever say and I will never desert you. You, and my writing, are the two things that are keeping me sane in this crazy ride we call life!

Reviews came thick and fast for the last chapter and I thank you all from the bottom of my heart! Major kudos to **nileena, moviemom44, pinkskyline, Chandraleila, Katya Jade, Wolvierules88, fallunder, immiD, babygames1 **and** adelphe24! **Take a bow, you deserve it!

Anyway, enough rambling from me! The curtain is about to rise - let the story continue!

**ooXoo**

**3. Twice Blue**

**Jubilee:**

_I can't sleep._

_Again …._

It's been going on for a couple of nights now, ever since Scott showed us the recording of the X-Ops and their captive. I lie awake for hours, my mind too troubled to let go and allow my body to rest. And when I finally do fall into an exhausted doze, I wake again almost immediately to a bed that looks as though the Battle of the Somme has been fought in it. I know this because Ororo showed us some old black and white pictures once, years ago, as part of a history lesson. The images were grainy and streaked with imperfections, but the perfect metaphor for what I am experiencing now.

It would be kinda poetic if it weren't so tragic. Here's me – stuck in the No Man's Land between dreams and reality and there's not a damn thing I can do about it.

And the reason for my sudden and debilitating bout of insomnia?

_A pair of icy blue eyes …._

I see them before me constantly, even when I am awake, which seems to be more often than not lately. And when I finally give in to exhaustion, they come to me in my sleep, easing into my dreams with all the familiarity of a lover and shocking me awake far faster than an ice cold glass of water in my face could ever do. They seem to be seeking me purposely, looking for the one thing which is not in my power to grant.

Justice.

Companionship.

_Freedom …._

Sensing another futile night ahead, I swing my legs out of bed and feel along the floor for my slippers with one foot. Concentrating on getting the right one on the right foot, I catch a glimpse of the digital clock on my bedside table and my heart plunges down to my toes , no doubt to help my feet get their act together.

_It's only 2.20 in the morning …._

Jeez, if this carries on, I'm gonna look like a hag before I'm thirty.

Grabbing my robe from the bottom of the bed, I wrap it around myself as I move to the door. The hallway beyond is silent and dark, with that air of finally being able to relax that all old houses seem to achieve after midnight. I doubt I would wake anyone if I put on a light but, not wanting to risk it, I generate a couple of low level fireworks and let them swirl above my hand to light the way as I pad to the stairs.

I have every intention of heading to the kitchen to make myself a mug of hot chocolate – there isn't much that ails you that can't be cured by a mug of chocolatey goodness – but somewhere along the way my feet turn left when they should have turned right and I find myself stepping into the elevator and pushing the button which will send it down to the lower levels.

I feel like a passenger in my own body as I trot down the shiny metal hallway, as though my brain has a purpose that the rest of my psyche isn't privy to. The lights on these levels are permanently on in case of emergency, powered by their own generator, so I allow my fireworks to dissipate, watching them dwindle away with barely a sound to mark their passing. I only wish the eyes that haunt me would vanish as obediently.

It's only when the doors to the War Room bar my way that I realise this was my destination all along, thinly disguised by a desire for hot chocolate. Maybe the answer to my dilemma lies within …..

The lights flick on as I enter, triggered by my presence, and I quickly navigate my way around the large conference table in the center of the room. Like all the equipment on these levels, it has been enhanced by Shi'ar technology and is capable of projecting fully interactive holographic images above its glossy surface. The tactical advantage this gives the team is incalculable.

And the gaming possibilities secretly programmed into it by Kitty aren't too shabby either …

This room never sleeps, its sole purpose being to gather information, monitor all operational systems and back-up the security measures in place around the mansion. If an emergency rears its ugly head, this room will become the nerve center of the operation, providing valuable assistance to those out in the field. Augmented by Professor Xavier and Cerebro, this room, however innocent it may seem, is a force to be reckoned with.

_Heaven help us if it ever fell into the wrong hands ….._

The monitors on the far wall are dark now, but I barely spare them a glance as I open the touch sensitive drawer beneath them and reach in for the disc labelled 'Evidence: Weapon X?' Slipping it free of its cover, I slide it into the player and fast forward to the precise moment the feral steps free of the helicopter.

Seeing him again, it's as if a dam has been breached, all my worries and insecurities cascading away with the torrent of thoughts and emotions that flow from me. Those blue eyes, which previously had conspired to haunt me, now seem to promise safety and refuge from my nightmares, and I lean towards the screen eagerly, seeking answers within the digital image.

When the feral looks to the sky I freeze the playback and spend a few moments studying the features that have taken over my dreams so thoroughly. Who is he? We only know the X-Ops call him Wolverine. The Beast's investigations were unable to turn up any further information, a fact which irks him immensely - he's not accustomed to failure. He ran the feral's image and name through every database known to man – and even a few that aren't – and came up with a big fat zero. The public access records from the original project were no help either, most of them being classified information and heavily censored. Why bother to release them if they're only gonna end up being censored? It doesn't make any sense. Anyway, the most we could glean from them were a couple of veiled references to mutant experimentation and a declaration from some director or other about the Weapon X project being a success, but that was it. To all intents and purposes, this Wolverine simply does not exist, yet there he is, staring at me from the screen as large as life.

_Who are you … ?_

Grimly, I hit the print button and tap my foot impatiently as the hard copy whirrs out of the printer nearby. I snatch it up without even looking at it, eject the disc and return it to its home in the drawer, then leave the War Room at a brisk walk. The journey back to the mansion proper goes by in a blur as I am deep in thought.

When the elevator doors open on the ground floor, I generate more fireworks and head to the kitchen, my appointment with hot chocolate long overdue. I place the feral's image face down on the counter top while I wait for the milk to boil, strangely unwilling to look at it until I am safely back in my room.

The image is tucked into my robe for the short journey back upstairs, so that I can balance my fireworks with one hand while I carry the mug with the other. My body feels strangely tingly all over, like it does just before going into battle, and I look behind me, half expecting to see another wandering insomniac prowling the hallways there. But there is only darkness and the shifting shadows caused by my own softly pulsating fireworks.

My room welcomes me back into its embrace like a long lost lover and I allow my fireworks to dissipate in favour of the more steady light from the bedside lamp. Placing both the mug and the image on the table between the lamp and the clock, I kick off my slippers, de-robe and then spend several moments trying to coax my rumpled bed covers into some resemblance of order. When I am satisfied with their compliance, I slide between them, draw up my knees and prop the image there while I reach for the mug. When I turn back, I almost drop the hot drink in surprise.

Those eyes – the ones that have haunted me so diligently both day and night – seem all the more intense for being printed in hard copy. Once again, I am struck by their beauty, all flecked with silver, but they carry the weight of the world in their hidden depths. The sorrow they hold is startlingly obvious.

As is the horror …

Sitting there with the image propped on my knees as I sip slowly at my hot chocolate, my life – and my purpose within it – comes into sharp focus, and I realise that, for all the hardships I've had to endure, they are nothing compared to those this man has obviously suffered. Somewhere out there he has a family – maybe even a wife and children – who are mourning his loss, probably thinking him dead. He's had his identity taken from him and his existence erased until he's nothing more than an image in a photo. He's been chained and treated like a dog by men who electrocute him for failing to obey an order. And why? So that humankind can sleep easier in their beds with the knowledge that the X-Ops will save the day and beat the bad guy.

But who really is the bad guy here?

Professor Xavier has called a meeting for tomorrow morning, presumably to check on progress with the X-Op investigations. Scott and Jean were supposed to check out the police officers who were on duty that night – maybe they've had results. God, I hope so. Somebody has to do something to help this guy and the X-Men, with all our combined powers and resources, are his only hope.

Jesus, what if he isn't the only mutant being held by the Weapon X Operatives? What if there are more – maybe hundreds – of innocent people being kept in slavery for humankind's twisted desires?

Will we ever know …..?

I finish my hot chocolate and return both the mug and the image to the bedside table, fancifully propping the latter up against the lamp so that it can watch over me while I sleep. Turning off the light, I snuggle down beneath the covers …

….. to wake up five hours later feeling both calm and refreshed.

But whether this is due to the soothing effect of the hot chocolate or the presence of the photo, I would be hard pressed to say …..

**oooOOOooo**

**Wolverine:**

_It's been snowin' again ….._

Soft newly fallen snow shifts beneath my feet as I turn a full circle, raisin' my head to scent my prey. The moonlight filterin' down through the trees casts my surroundings with a muted glow, shatterin' the starkness o' the night an' makin' the trees look like skeletons standin' guard around me.

I know a thing or two about skeletons …..

Mine is made o' metal. I know this 'cause I've seen it a time or two, after some bozo with a rocket launcher has used me for target practise, or when the handlers in white coats have cut me open. Thing is, I don't think it's a natural cause o' my mutation. Oh yeah, I know I'm a mutant. The handlers use the word alla time to describe the ones like me kept in cages. They call us gene-joke an' mutie trash. Their sneering tone an' the way they like to cause pain suggests they think they're better'n us, but I don't hold with that. I hate every last one of 'em. I've killed a few in my time, an' I'll do so again if I ever get the chance. This fuckin' collar around my neck keeps me under control an' stops me from guttin' every last one of 'em, but one day it'll come off.

An' then there'll be some screamin' …

The breeze shifts slightly, bringin' a telltale trace o' prey to my nose. I immediately pivot around on one foot, gettin' a quick bearin' before startin' off into the trees once more. My bare feet make scarcely a sound on the virgin snow now that I'm on the hunt. The cold means nothin' to me – it's just one more obstacle my mind an' body have to overcome. The boots an' jacket I was wearin' when my handlers set me free are stashed in the branches of a tree a ways back. The pants I kept on for safety's sake. I know from experience that there ain't no metal 'down there' an' a swipe from a set o' bear claws or sudden acquaintance with a previously unseen tree branch can do a lot o' damage. I may be a mutie, but I ain't stupid.

So I hunt the way nature intended. Free from the restraints my handlers have imposed on me. Or at least if I tell myself that often enough, I can come to believe it.

The ground beneath my feet begins to rise in a shallow incline an' I dig my toes in to avoid slippin' backwards an' alertin' my prey. I've hunted here many times an' I know the terrain well, but each hunt brings new challenges. I've killed bear here. Once, a couple o' Siberian tigers. They were senseless deaths, ordered by the men who control the pain my collar brings an' I took no delight from them. The creatures I killed were innocent beasts, robbed o' their freedom an' brought here to provide live targets for the mutants the handlers train to kill. I am no stranger to the shadow o' death, but wanton killing o' beasts sickens me. A creature should only be culled from the pack if it is ailing, or mad or too old to hunt. To kill for pleasure is wasteful.

There have been other deaths here too – ones which, at the time, I had no control over an' exulted in but which now shame me for the part I played in them. I remember the red haze of anger which clouded my vision all too well, the overwhelming need to vent my fury on the ones trying to escape me. I remember screams of pain as I buried my claws into soft flesh – pleading eyes – a look of horror as they realised death had come for them that night. Those deaths I will never forget - or forgive. They haunt my nightmares an' send me rolling from my blankets in the thick o' the night, panic cloudin' my judgement in a way no amount o' punishment from my handlers would ever be able to produce. Their only crime was to lose themselves in these hills – to stumble to the base seekin' aid, only to find betrayal an' death.

Or so my handlers told me, after the deed was done an' the red haze o' madness had released its unwillin' victim.

At least their end was quick. I made sure o' that. Some o' the other mutants here take after our handlers an' like being cruel – they would have made the victims suffer before finally puttin' them out o' their misery. The other feral especially – the big one with the talons an' the wild eyes – he likes to play with his prey for hours before finally makin' the kill.

I snort an' shake the bad thoughts away with a toss of my head. Hunkerin' down beside an ice-clogged crick meanderin' its way down the incline, I slake my thirst with a mouthful o' the freezin' water, allowin' the icy sharpness to clear my head. As I rise, a tiny noise in a stand o' trees to my left grabs my attention an' I turn slowly, sniffin' the air.

My prey is near …..

I creep forward silently, droppin' to the ground to cover the last few feet on my belly. Slippin' into the cover provided by a snow enshrouded bush, I move into a crouch an' peer around it into the tiny clearin' beyond.

The stag an' his two does are totally oblivious to my presence, pawing daintily at the ground to uncover the tender grass shoots hidden by the snow. Almost holdin' my breath now, I dig down into the snow an' pull up a handful o' grass, then creep forward inch by agonising inch, crooning softly in my throat an' knowin' instinctively that I am downwind from my prey so my scent won't carry. I've done this so many times, it's second nature to me now – I could probably do it in my sleep.

When I am so close to the nearest doe that I could almost reach out an' touch her, I stop an' hold out my hand. Her head comes around, scenting the grass and, as she takes it, I feel my lips pull back in an expression that I haven't practised in so long that it seems almost alien to me - a smile.

The doe's head comes up as she chews an' our eyes meet – hers soft an' chocolate-brown an' mine hard but full o' respect for this power o' nature that has allowed me to join her world, however fleeting. She trusts me 'cause we are one an' I mean her no harm, an' I reach further as she takes the last morsal o' grass, touchin' her soft flank with reverent fingers, re-affirming my connection with the forces that shaped us both. I am a creature of the wild like these deer, yet man has tainted us both with their evil an' holds our futures ransom. Tomorrow, another mutant may take the life o' this doe an' her mate, but tonight there will be no killing. I can kill. I ain't gonna deny that. I've taken so many targets on the orders o' my handlers that I can't remember their faces anymore, each take-down mergin' into the next. But there ain't no skill in it. It's just something I can do, an' I do it well, believe me. But I learned long ago that true skill lies in being able to track a stag an' his mate – to be able to come so close that you can actually reach out an' touch 'em.

To become one with the forces o' nature …

The stag lifts his head then an' snorts to find me sittin' so close to his harem. With a flash o' warning from his white-tipped tail, he bounds into the trees, takin' his females with him. I listen to 'em go with a pang o' sorrow, wishin' I could take off an' join 'em. If they're lucky, they'll make their way clear o' the X-Op owned land by night's end an' find safety deeper in the mountains. My own future lies behind me, back the way I've just trod, an' nothin' can change that. I was born the way I am for a reason an' that's the way it's gotta be. But sometimes I wonder – are there other mutants out there? Mutants who are free like the deer an' not forced to live in cages? Or are all my kind subject to the whims o' men who look so like us, but who are worlds apart? All I've ever known is my life in the cages, but sometimes ….. sometimes my dreams tell me other things. They give me glimpses o' places where I know I've never been …. images o' people I know I haven't met. An' I wonder … have I lived before? Was there a time my life wasn't someone else's to control?

_Why can't I remember …?_

My collar vibrates silently then, remindin' me that it's almost dawn an' time to return to my handlers. For a moment, I hesitate, starin' off in the direction the deer took flight in, my spirit boundin' along with them, but then I turn an' head out o' the clearin', followin' the crick downhill until the ground levels off. As I jog towards the tree where I hid my clothes, it begins to snow once more, slowly coverin' up my tracks an' hidin' all evidence o' my presence here.

Wipin' out my very existence…

Peters an' Hanley are waitin' for me at the drop off point, beside the transport vehicle. Hanley approaches with my leash, clippin' it into place on my collar.

"There you go, boy. Did you have a good time out there?"

He ruffles my hair affectionately an' I growl at the affront, causing Peters to chuckle. "Leave it out, Hanley. He's not a dog."

"He likes attention. He responds to it. Don't you, boy?" Hanley ignores my irate rumble an' tugs on my leash, leadin' me towards the transport. I start to follow in his wake, only to pull up short when I feel the weight of unseen eyes on my shoulders.

_What the …?_

I swing around, almost pullin' Hanley off his feet an' droppin' into a crouch with my claws unsheathed. Peters immediately unslings his rifle, trainin' it on the surroundin' trees as a warnin' growl rumbles in my throat.

"Is there something out there? Wolverine?" Hanley wisely keeps his distance, but draws a small handgun, holdin' it at the ready as he shifts slightly to the side to allow himself a clean line of sight past my body. "Peters, can you see anything?"

"Not a goddamn thing." Peters has the rifle's infrared sight to his eye as he peers into the trees. "Your boy's spooking at shadows again."

_Shut the hell up, _I feel like yelling, but I haven't spoken a word since my original handlers tortured me to death every day for three weeks straight just for talkin' back to a guard, an' so I keep my council to myself, concentratin' instead on reachin' out with the senses that separate me on all levels from the men who stand beside me. But my nose is pickin' up no trace of a foreign scent, an' all I can hear is the gentle rush of the breeze an' the sigh o' falling snow. It's almost as if …. as if …..

It's gone. Whatever it was, I can feel no trace of it now an' I allow my claws to slide slowly back into my forearms, risin' from my battle crouch an' turnin' to face Hanley with a snort.

Peters lowers his rifle with a disgusted curse. "Dammit, Hanley, you're gonna have to control your boy better than this. You keep lettin' him spook at nothing an' you're gonna get him punished again."

"No, there was something out there, I'm sure of it." Hanley moves closer, extending his free hand as if to reassure me. "You sensed something, didn't you, boy? Was it a bear?"

I snort a breath an' Peters bites off a curse. "No bears at this time of year, Hanley."

"Wolves, then. Were there wolves out there, boy?"

I'm gonna have to do something to put my handlers' minds at rest or we'll be standin' out here all day, an' so I give the recognised sign for 'all clear'. Hanley's face breaks into a delighted grin.

"Good boy! There you go, Peters, I told you there were wolves out there!"

"Yeah, yeah." Peters stomps towards the transport, his face sullen. "I'm real happy for ya, Hanley. You think you could get your ass in gear before we freeze our balls off out here?"

Hanley chuckles an' tugs on the leash, leadin' me to the transport an' loadin' me into the armoured holdin' cage at the back. As the door closes behind me, I turn quickly to take a last look at the snow-laden trees surroundin' us, my eyes still searchin' for any sign o' movement between their skeletal trunks. Because there _was _something out there, I'm sure of it, an' it sure as hell wasn't wolves. Or anything else that Hanley, with his limited intelligence, could dream up.

It felt as though ….. as though it was searching …

The transport jolts into motion an' begins its journey back down the dirt track towards the base. Back towards the hate an' the relentless pain an' never ending tedium o' captivity. But, for once, my mind is elsewhere. It's back among the trees, reliving the moment when the unseen eyes touched my shoulders.

Because, just for a moment, right before I lost 'em, I could swear they were searching for me …

**NEXT: **Jubilee's ill-advised plan!


	4. Dead Ends

Hey, everyone! First of all, remember the 'NEXT' I left you with at the end of the last chapter? (Go on, have a look, I'll wait for you!) Okay? Well, put it right out of your minds, because we won't be going that way anymore! I had the plot all planned - how Jubilee meets Wolvie and everything! And then I had a true eureka moment and it all went out the window! The new meeting is WAY better and more in keeping with the characters. Of course, you'll never know what I was originally going to write, but trust me on this!

The last chapter had a phenomenal response and I would like to thank everyone who took the time to leave a review - **moviemom44, Jeanniebird, BerserkerHellHound, wolvyluvsj, Takiki16, Swartzvald, JamesoftheMeadow, nita6546, fangirlie, Wolfdude131**, **adelphe24, Laudine, pinkskyline **and **Katya Jade! **Take a bow, guys, you're awesome!

Anyway, enough from me, you've been waiting to read this chapter for long enough - enjoy!

**ooXoo**

**4. Dead Ends**

_*Knock knock*_

_What the …..? Is that somebody at the door?_

"Go 'way," I grumble, pulling the sheet over my head. "M'asleep."

_*Knock knock knock*_

"Jubes? Jubes, you'd better get your ass outta bed right now. Do you realise what time it is?" Kitty's voice assails me crossly through the door and I crack open a gummy eye with a groan. The digital numbers on my bedside clock come slowly into focus, as if reluctant to reveal their secrets to someone who obviously hasn't got the wherewithal to read them. Blinking rapidly, I force my brain to regroup and concentrate, willing my eyes to behave and read the information being presented to them.

_7.39am …._

"Cripes!" I push back my covers, struggling for a moment as I get tangled up in the sheet. _Xavier's meeting is in twenty minutes!_

"Jubes?"

"You go ahead, Kitty, I'll be there as soon as I can." I am scampering for the bathroom even as I speak, almost tripping over a carelessly discarded sneaker in my haste. Kicking it out of my way with a muttered curse, I lunge for the shower, dialling at all the way up to 'power shower' in the hope that the pulsing spray will knock some sense into me. _What on Earth was I thinking of? _To oversleep on this of all mornings – the day when light may be shed on the shady dealings of the Weapon X Operatives.

I don't know if Kitty makes any kind of reply – if she does, the words are swallowed by the hiss of the water falling around me. Unless I miss my guess, she's probably already gone to run interference for me - distracting Xavier from my absence until I show up, so that I don't miss anything. We've got it down to a fine art by now – we work well together as a team, me an' the Kitty-kat. She's always got my back, just as I always cover hers. It's what friends do.

I shower in less time than it would take most people to brush their teeth, the thought of finally finding answers to the enigma known as Wolverine spurring me on. My hair is brushed to a damp glossy shine while I am still pushing my feet into my sneakers and I tie it back into a loose pony-tail to allow it to dry naturally on the run. Thank heaven I don't have to fuss it into some kinda style like a few of the other X-girls – no names mentioned here! – have to do. Long and sleek and with just a hint of a wave, I can leave it to flow freely around my shoulders or tie it up out of the way when there's training to be done. Afterwards, I can just brush it out and _voila! _I am instantly adorable once more!

I'm outta the door an' heading for the stairs with just minutes to spare, pausing only to touch a finger to my photo of Wolverine before I go. I don't know why I do it – I only know that it feels kinda _wrong_ to leave the room without some sorta farewell, almost as though assuring him I will be back. I feel foolish for doing it, yet strangely comforted in the knowledge that my photo will still be there when I return – waiting for me. _God, I'm turning into such a dweeb! _Maybe I should stop hanging around with Bobby and the tweenie gang!

I make a brief detour in the downstairs hallway to pay a quick-fire visit to the kitchen, where I swipe a slice of toast from the hand of a startled trainee. Munching on my pilfered treat, I then jog the rest of the way to Professor Xavier's study, my sneakers squeaking slightly on the heavily polished wood floor. The door is closed and I tap on it politely, waiting for his rich tones to bid me enter.

Not surprisingly, the rest of the team are already present, ranged around the room like silent sentinels. I try to ignore Scott's disapproving glare as I cross to the window seat and join Kitty. I don't know what it is about the man, but somehow he always manages to make me feel like a fourteen year old again – and I don't mean that in a good way. It's like he has this unconscious mutant ability, completely separate from the eye-beams thing. One look and he can turn the most confident of individuals into a blathering idiot. No one is immune – except, of course, for the Professor and the more senior members of the team. The poor trainees don't stand a chance – even the usually devil-may-care Gambit has been known to crack under that ruby gaze, although he likes to pretend otherwise and heaven help anyone who contradicts his interpretation of things!

It was Scott who found me, y'know – huddled in the generator room like a rat in its lair. Probably would have shot me to kingdom come with those freaky eye-beams of his if he hadn't noticed my little stash of stuff hidden away in the corner and realised he'd just found a stowaway. Things had been going missing for weeks – a hairbrush here, a book there. And food. Lots of food. Hey, a girl has to survive, y'know? The team had put all the incidents down to bad memory and a lack of organisation, never realising I was there. But Scott's discovery put an end to all that …

I push the wash of memories aside and take a seat beside Kitty, grinning as Lockheed leans off her shoulder and sniffs hopefully in the direction of my toast. Breaking off a tiny piece, I offer it to the dragon just as a discrete cough from the direction of the desk in the center of the room attracts my attention.

Professor Xavier is watching me with the air of one who has long since realised his role in life is to be tormented by those who like yellow. _*Cough*_

"Thank you for joining us, Jubilation," he announces in that smooth way of his. _An' I wish he wouldn't call me that!_ His eyes flick towards Lockheed, who has just taken the toast in his tiny paws and is licking at the butter delightedly and making soft cooing noises. "I would very much appreciate not getting grease on my imported Axminster."

"He'll be careful, sir." Kitty responds in my stead, just as Lockheed swallows the piece of toast and blows a satisfied smoke ring. "No flames now, dragon. Y'hear?"

The Professor shakes his head in resignation and regards the rest of his gathered X-Men carefully. "I thank you all for rescheduling your duties to attend this meeting. I understand some of you have Danger Room assignments waiting, so I will endeavour to be brief. Henry …" he turns to our blue-furred doctor. "….. have you managed to unearth any more information regarding the Weapon X project?"

The Beast shakes his head, dejectedly. "Regrettably no, Professor. If any files remain, they are locked down tight. I am, as they say, at something of a dead-end."

The Professor nods slowly, obviously realising how much it has cost our doc to admit to failure. Henry is something of a perfectionist – he takes pride in a job well done and considers it a personal affront when things don't go according to plan. Having no further information to report must really hurt the big guy.

"Keep looking, Henry, but try not to step on any toes," the Professor tells him now. "We don't want to attract any undue attention."

"God, no. Heaven help us if SHIELD gets wind of what we're doing," adds Scott from his position on the only couch in the room, which he is sharing with his fiancée. "We do not need Nick Fury breathing down our necks"

"But wouldn't that be a good thing?" objects Bobby, with a frown. "Well, not the breathing, obviously, but the knowing? Wouldn't he help us?"

"That's highly unlikely, Bobby." Jean crosses an elegant leg and leans back in her seat. "SHIELD can't be seen to ally themselves with renegades."

"But what about unofficially?" persists Bobby. "The organisation exists to deal with injustice, among other things. What's more unjust than enslaving mutants?"

"Bobby, your ideals are admirable, but unfortunately not shared by the general populace." Storm, seated on a high-backed chair to the right of the Professor's desk, speaks for the first time. "Mutants are feared and hated simply for the crime of being different, as well you know. To some, we are no better than vermin. Most would regard slavery as the best use for our kind."

"It's not right," Bobby insists, but he knows Storm's words are true and all the fight's gone out of him. Gambit, standing behind his chair, pats the boy's shoulder.

"Don' give up yet, _mon ami._ De X-men, dey don't go down wit'out a fight."

"Yeah, so what about you, Scott?" I add, hopefully. "Weren't you and Jean going to check out the cops that attended the hostage situation?"

"We were, and we did." Scott looks to the Professor. "It was easy to track down the police force in attendance that night and equally as easy to gain access to the precinct on the guise of reporting a stolen car. However, I'm afraid our news isn't much better than Henry's, sir."

"Go on."

"It's as we thought, Professor. According to Jean's scan, the entire precinct believes that the situation was diffused by the SWAT team. Those in attendance that night show signs of recent memory adjustment, while those not in the immediate vicinity have been influenced by the recollections of their colleagues and have no reason to suppose otherwise."

"I suspect this will hold true for the paramedics and SWAT team also," added Jean. "Everyone in attendance that evening will have a different view of events from what actually happened."

Gambit whistles through his teeth. "Dat some mighty powerful telepath dey got dere, _non?"_

Jean nods in agreement.

"But why weren't you all affected on the jet?" asks Kitty, patting Lockheed's head as he coos gently into her ear.

"Probably because no one knew we were there," responds Scott, tersely. "We were cloaked and shielded, remember? And our own resident telepath is no slouch in the powers department."

"If anyone had tried to hack into our minds, I would have felt it instantly," Jean tells us, in no uncertain terms. "Believe me, that person wouldn't have lived to make the same mistake twice."

Everyone pauses to digest this nugget of information. _Did I mention that Jean can be real scary sometimes?_

Bobby finally puffs up his cheeks and expels the air, noisily. "So where does this leave us? What do we do now?"

"Maybe you could try de Cerebro, Professor?" This from Gambit, who has folded his arms and is regarding our mentor intently. "Telepaths, dey leave a unique psychic signature, _non?"_

"Indeed they do, Remy, and I am happy to assure you that I am no slouch in the powers department either. I utilised Cerebro early this very morning."

"Yay!" That's me.

"However, my results were no more successful than Henry's." The Professor turns sad eyes in my direction. "I am sorry."

"No yay?"

A slight shake of the head. "There will be no cause for celebration at this time, Jubilee. I searched long and hard, but found no trace of either the Weapon X Operatives or Wolverine. Whoever their telepath is, I fear his abilities far outweigh mine."

"Geez! That's scary!" Bobby again.

"So what do you suggest we do now, Professor?" asks Storm. "It seems we have hit a dead end."

"I agree. There is nothing else we can do at this stage except hope that Henry manages to turn up a long-forgotten file. I will continue to search with Cerebro, of course." The Professor suddenly turns thoughtful. "I thought I almost had something this morning. It was fleeting – very faint – and as tangible as mist. Yet, just before I lost it, I felt this overwhelming sense of ….. of sadness."

The Professor's voice trails off as he relives the moment, looking down at his hands in his lap. When he raises his head, he finds us all hanging on to his every word, our faces rapt.

He clears his throat, obviously embarrassed. "As I said, the contact was brief and it slipped through my mental fingers like water. But the signature was so unique I would like to try and find it again."

"Do you think it was Wolverine?" asks Kitty, hopefully.

"I honestly don't know," responds the Professor, with a sigh. "It could be him, or one of a million others. I do know the signature was like nothing I have ever encountered before and warrants further investigation."

"Clutching at straws much, Professor?" asks Scott, with a slight smile.

"Maybe," agrees our mentor. "But unless the X-Ops make another appearance, it's the only option we've got."

There's a round of murmured agreements.

"In the meantime," the Professor continues, "I think we should all turn our attention to the Yashida Charity Ball at the Japanese Embassy. We have less than a week to prepare and I, for one, will be grateful for the distraction."

I groan at the news. "Really, Professor, do I have to go? All that pomp and eating with your pinkie pricked is so not me."

The Professor frowns at me. "Yes, Jubilee, you do have to go, as I told you when we received the invitation. Shingen Yashida has done the School a great honour and I do not intend to disgrace ourselves, or insult him, by not attending."

I pull a face, which the Professor chooses to ignore. Kitty elbows me in the ribs. "Cheer up, Jubes! It'll be fun! You'll get to wear your new dress!"

I can think of a thousand other more exciting ways of having fun, and none of them involve wearing a dress, but I know the Professor's right. The Yashida clan's charity balls are legendary and strictly by invitation only. Our involvement will open up all kinds of doors for the School, giving us greater flexibility to recruit our mutant student body while still maintaining the perfect cover. There are still hundreds of young mutants out there waiting to be found and anything that helps us to do just that has to be explored, right?

The Professor brings the meeting to a close and we all depart to our various duties. I've volunteered to help with Ororo's history class – _yeah, me an' history, can ya believe it? _– but I've still got about thirty minutes spare, so I jog back to my room to change into something more suitable for a classroom before I join the students. My photo is waiting exactly where I left it and I can't help picking it up and gazing into those mysterious blue eyes like a first class sap.

"Who are you?" I wonder aloud, not for the first time.

And why do I suddenly get the feeling we've known each other for a lifetime …..

**oooOOOooo**

General Robert Caplin eased back in his seat and made a steeple of his fingers, his attention riveted on the video monitors which covered the entire wall opposite his desk. Transmitting various views from around the X-Op base, they afforded him the perfect opportunity to keep an eye on everything from the food being prepared in the kitchens to the cages the weapons were housed in. There was a similar set-up in the control room several levels lower down, but Caplin preferred to do his spying from the comfort of his own office, where he could observe without being observed himself.

A flash of movement caught his eye and he quickly toggled a switch, changing the monitors to show just one particular view across the entire wall – that of the arena, where two of the ferals were being put through their paces. One was notably smaller than the other and was currently having his face repeatedly smashed into the vibranium floor of the arena – Caplin would have winced at all the blood if the victim had not been a mutant and therefore undeserving of consideration.

Leaning forward onto the desk, the general watched expectantly as the smaller feral finally managed to twist out of the other's grasp. But instead of putting some distance between them, he immediately launched back into the fray, bulling into the larger mutant's side and sending them both crashing to the floor. Punches and snarls were traded as they each tried to gain dominance over the other.

He was a feisty little fellow, Caplin had to give him that, but he had no hope of besting the larger feral. While he was fast, his opponent was stronger, and easily capable of putting his fellow mutant in his place. But his handlers enjoyed watching him try and the match was easily one of the favourites in the pool. One day, someone was set to make a fortune by betting wisely.

Never taking his eyes from the screen, Caplin finally made a decision and reached out to his intercom. "Michaels? Patch me through to our client on a secure line."

Michaels didn't need to be told who the client was, being fully up to date on all the general's dealings and, moments later, a cultured female voice with a middle-eastern flavour issued from the speakers.

"Yes?"

"Miss Yashida, I have decided to take your assignment. You are familiar with our terms and conditions?"

"Yes, perfectly. Your payment is only waiting to be transferred to the account of your choice. However, I have some conditions of my own, if I may?"

It irked Caplin that she would bring them up now, when negotiations were almost over, but she was a rich woman and it couldn't hurt to indulge her. "Go on."

"My father, Shingen, is an extremely powerful man with many rivals waiting to usurp control of the clan and deny me my heritage. Do you understand?"

"I understand." Caplin made to bid her continue, only to have his attention suddenly diverted by the two ferals still fighting on screen. The smaller one was limping, covered in blood and one arm was hanging uselessly by his side. To all intents and purposes, he was finished and his opponent clearly thought so too because he turned away and howled triumphantly. Unnoticed, the smaller feral gathered every last iota of strength and flung himself at the other, unleashing his unique weapons through the prohibiting pain provided by his collar and eviscerating his rival with a savagery that made Caplin smile in satisfaction. The X-Ops didn't train their weapons to throw in the towel at the first sign of a beating, and this one had just proven that all their time and effort hadn't been wasted.

As the feral's handlers rushed into the arena, using cattle prods and the collar shock to force the feral away from his rival, Caplin became aware that his client was speaking. He turned back to the intercom. "I'm sorry, Miss Yashida, something momentarily demanded my attention. Do continue."

If the woman was irked by his inattention, her tone certainly didn't show it. "The assassination must be made to look as though my father has been a victim of a botched robbery attempt," she asserted. "The attack must be thorough, with no hope of survival. If there is any evidence to suggest I had a hand in his death, my claim to succession will be invalid and I will be exiled."

Caplin smiled. "You need have no worries on that score, Miss Yashida." He turned back to the screen. "I have the perfect man for the job …"

**NEXT: **Jubilee, meet Wolverine! 'Nuff said!


	5. Tempt Her with Darkness

****Hello everyone! Yes, I'm back! So sorry to leave you all without updates for such a long time, but I have had major upheavals in my life recently and my muse deserted me. Things are now slowly back on an upward track, so hopefully my writing should get back to normal! Rest assured that, however long it takes me to manage an update, I will NEVER leave a story unfinished - 'nuff said!

Before we move on to the usual accolades, I must clear up a point brought up in a recent review. Jubilee is NOT a teenager in this story - she is in her early twenties by now. I mention this because if you're reading this story with Jubilee in mind as a teenager, you're gonna get a shock later on when she gets closer to Wolvie! This is an X-RATED story and unfolding events will reflect that! You have been warned!

Many thanks for all your wonderful reviews for the last chapter! Kudos to **Wolvierules88, moviemom44, KeitorinNara, bellislefan, Takiki16, Jeanniebird, fangirlie, swartzvald** and **adelphie24!**

And now, without further rambling from me ... **onward!**

**ooXoo**

**5. Tempt Her with Darkness**

The Embassy shindig is in full swing by the time we arrive, our two rented limousines pulling onto a gravel driveway awash with light blazing from the columned windows. A couple of valets rush forward to open the car doors for us and I endeavour to make a ladylike exit without flashing too much leg. The deep burgundy cocktail dress I am wearing has a hem which struggles to reach my knee and leaves far too much room for error, in my modest opinion. You'd think I'd be accustomed to showing a bit of leg now and then, having spent the better part of my teens considering a pair of green shorts the height of super-hero fashion, but somehow the presence of a smart dress and a pair of strappy sandals seems to call for more decorum than simply leaping out of the car and yelling "I'm here! Where're the sausage rolls?"

Having made a stately exit from the car without flashing anything I shouldn't – and thereby ending up in tomorrow's papers – I pause with Kitty on the porch while Scott makes up the Professor's travelling wheelchair. Our limos roll smoothly away to allow others to take their place and another group of party goers are unloaded.

I step back as they pass by, all shiny teeth and perfectly styled hair – and that's just the guys! The women – well, let's just say they'd put a catwalk model to shame. My own dress has a fancy label and cost me – _ahem, s'cuse me – _cost the Professor an absolute fortune, yet I feel that I've earned the right to wear it far more than the primped examples of female-hood walking by. I bet none of _them _has ever had to face down a Sentinel while still trying to tie your sneakers!

Kitty jabs me in the ribs at that moment hard enough to leave a bruise. "Put a smile on your face, Jubes. Your frown could curdle milk."

I allow myself a pout, before grinning in an inane fashion just to annoy her. "Remind me again why I'm here, Kitty."

"Because the Professor said he would tan your hide, ground you for ten years and take away all your nail varnish if you tried to get out of it," my so-called friend tells me, gleefully.

"I'm beginning to think it would have been worth it," I grumble, as another limo disgorges its passengers. I watch them disappear into the Embassy, grimacing as a horse-faced woman laughs raucously at a lame joke made by one of her companions.

_*Sigh*_

We're in for such a fun evening. Oh joy.

Okay, I'm beginning to sound like a grouch and I really don't mean to be. After all, I can party with the best of 'em and my moonwalk has to be seen to be believed. But you have to understand that large gatherings of humans make me nervous. They can so easily become a crazed lynch mob at even the slightest hint of a mutant being among them and both Nightcrawler and Angel have fallen victim to beatings in the past, barely escaping with their lives. So you'll excuse me if I'm not all agog at the prospect of spending the next few hours surrounded by hundreds of them.

Clutching my sequined evening purse like a treasured lifeline, I take comfort from the secret weapon concealed within …

"Are we ready then?" Jean's voice pulls me from my thoughts and I turn to see the rest of our entourage waiting for us on the porch, the Professor and his chair having been carried up the four shallow steps by Scott and Remy. You'd think with all his millions and scientific know-how he'd have come up with a chair that could hover up stairs by now, wouldn't you? No? Okay, just me then.

Our little group is made up of all the senior X-Men, minus Henry, who would stand out like a sore thumb, and Bobby, who is still too young to attend a bash like this. Scott and Remy are both sporting shades – Scott for obvious reasons and Remy to hide his red eyes and avoid awkward questions. As well as myself, Ororo, Kitty, Jean and Rogue are all wearing variations on a theme – elegant evening gowns or ruffled cocktail dresses, all hideously expensive and boasting more designer labels than you can shake a stick at. Kitty's shoulder looks strangely bare without its usual draconic adornment and I know she is missing her companion like crazy.

Professor Xavier takes the point and leads us all into the Embassy, where our invitation is checked by a prissy looking Maitre D before announcing us to the room at large. Feeling slightly conspicuous as curious eyes slide towards us, I lift my chin and try to appear nonchalant as we descend three steps to the marbled hallway and begin to make our way through the throng towards the ballroom to our right. Our progress is halted every few steps by fellow party goers who which to introduce themselves or simply renew their acquaintance with the Professor who, it seems, has managed to get around a bit despite his handicap. I am too busy checking out the potential mob at first to take any notice of what's being said but, as I begin to relax, I realise I am being introduced as a teaching assistant. Result! Way to go, me!

At last, we reach the relative safety of the ballroom, where I have to make a conscious effort not to gawk around me like a country yokel. The place is positively dripping in crystal! I count at least six chandeliers marching the length of the ceiling and twice as many wall-lights, all of which cast a glittering corona on the assembly below. Past the dancers and through an archway at the end of the ballroom I can see the dining room already set for the evening's feasting – more chandeliers, candelabras and crystal tablewear – and suddenly I am relieved that we didn't bring Syryn with us. One badly timed girlie squeal and the Professor would have been in debt for years!

A passing waiter pauses for us to help ourselves to champagne from his tray and then disappears like a ghost into the throng, presumably for refills. As the Professor chats politely to a lady who has inquired after his health, I look around for the source of the music surrounding us, finally locating a small orchestra on a balcony overlooking the ballroom. I have to admit they're pretty good – well, they're in tune and everything, but this fancy stuff is so not my thing. Give me some Nickelback or Bryan Adams an' I'll show you a thing or two!

Jean and Scott seem to like it though – our fearless leader has already whirled his fiancée onto the dance floor and, as the current quickstep segues nicely into an elegant waltz, I can see them cuddling together like a couple of newlyweds. I mime sticking my finger down my throat at Kitty and she snorts into her champagne. While she chokes and tries to catch her breath, I pound her helpfully on the back.

Remy seems to be attracting rather a lot of female attention – hardly surprising really, as he cuts a dashing figure in his new tux. But our reformed thief only has eyes for Rogue and it isn't long before he takes her hand and leads her out onto the dance floor. She's all nervous smiles and lowered lashes, but he guides her gently through the waltz until the other dancers close in and they are lost from view, leaving broken hearts scattered in their wake.

Half hoping for a knight in shining armor to whisk me onto the floor, I scan the room but, when he fails to appear, I snort and drain the last drop of champagne from my glass. Depositing the now empty glass on a passing waiter's tray, I snag a refill and slug half of it in one go.

"Take it easy, Jubes," Kitty whispers artfully in my ear. "That's heady stuff, y'know."

Indeed it is. I feel better already. Who needs a knight in shining armor anyway? They're vastly over-rated. And the horse leaves hoofprints in the flower beds.

A ripple of anticipation suddenly goes around the room like a Mexican wave and I look to the doorway just in time to see a Japanese woman enter ahead of her entourage. She is dressed in a floor length Mandarin-collared scarlet evening gown embossed with thread-of-gold dragons, her hair perfectly styled into a delicate upsweep. She looks so stately that I just know she has to be someone of importance.

"Who's that?" I ask, of no one in particular.

"That, my dear Jubilee, is Lady Mariko Yashida, heir to the vast wealth of the Yashida clan." Professor Xavier has manoeuvred his chair up beside me and is watching our hostess's progress around the room. "She is rumoured to be desired in courtship by a hundred men."

"She's beautiful," breathes Kitty. "Wait – did you say a _hundred_ men?"

"Yes, all hoping to get their hands on the Yashida fortune, no doubt," confirms the Professor. "I truly pity that young woman. Imagine being so desired, yet never knowing if your suitor truly loves you or merely wishes to gain control of your clan. She must live a lonely existence."

Well, that kinda puts the mockers on all the joy-joy feelings for a moment and we wait in silence as the Lady Mariko draws nearer. I take the opportunity to study her closely – yes, she's beautiful, with glossy black hair akin to my own, but there's a hardness to her eyes that hints of a shrewd mind and the ability to use it. Lady Mariko Yashida, it seems, is a woman used to getting her own way.

The crowds part before her as she steps up to our little group and places her hand in the Professor's. Ever the gallant gentleman, he presses a kiss to the back of it.

"Lady Mariko, it is very good to see you again. I trust your father is well?"

"Very well, thank you." Lady Mariko's voice is soft, all peaches and cream, with that seductive Oriental accent that has ever eluded me, since I was born here in the States. "He is, at present, meditating in his private quarters in preparation for his speech, but he will join us shortly."

"I shall enjoy speaking with him again," the Professor tells her. "The Lord Shingen has some very interesting theories regarding ancient Japanese weaponry that I should like to be enlightened on."

Lady Mariko smiles at this, inclines her head and moves away to greet other guests. The Professor turns to find me and Kitty staring at him in surprise.

"You didn't tell us you know our hosts personally," Kitty accuses, pouting.

"Merely a passing acquaintance," the Professor admits. "We met some years before you joined us, Kitty, while I was in Japan checking out a contact. We have kept in touch ever since, although our correspondence has become sparse of late. Clan duties occupy much of Lord Shingen's time."

"Does he know about the School?" asks Kitty. "That it's …. you know?"

"Certainly not." The Professor looks scandalised that she would even consider the possibility. "Anonymity is our only defence. Although …." he adds, conspiratorially, "….. there are rumours that the X-Gene runs strong in the Yashida family line."

"You're kidding!" I exclaim, surprised. In my experience, those in positions of power have long harboured ill-will toward mutant kind.

The Professor smiles. "To use your own words, Jubilee, I kid you not. I have never had occasion to confirm these rumours, but I suspect the Lady Mariko will be on the receiving end of more than fame and fortune when she comes into her inheritance."

Well, there's a thing. To have mutants in your family and not even know it. Is she tolerant of mutant-kind, I wonder? Or will she hunt them down like dogs when she realises her line is 'tainted' by the X-Gene?

I wish I knew.

Jean and Scott choose that moment to make a breathless return and I use the distraction to slip away and find the little girl's room. A kind faced waiter by the door directs me to the first floor by way of a grand marble staircase and I soon find myself in a lady's powder room almost as big as the ballroom downstairs. Luxury abounds. Each marble-tiled cubicle boasts its own washbasin with gold taps, complete with warm towels in a basket on the glossy vanity unit. It's so over the top that I could puke.

Out in the main room there's a long floor length mirror and I check my appearance before making to leave. Yep, everything is still in place – no creases in my dress or unsightly food between my teeth. I pause a moment to admire my hair, held in its ornate upswept style with crystal-tipped pins which wink at me from my glossy black locks. It was Kitty's idea to style it this way and, although I balked at first, I must admit the overall effect is somewhat stunning, even if I do say so myself. A girl's gotta blow her own trumpet sometime, y'know?

I smooth my dress across my hips, admiring the way the silky bodice drapes softly over one shoulder and falls into an elegant waterfall effect at the back. Diamond earrings and necklet – both borrowed from Jean – flash from my neck and ears and I turn this way and that, letting them catch the light. It's a shame I will have to give them back tomorrow – I've kinda taken a liking to them. Maybe me an' Kitty could hunt down something similar – and a tad cheaper! – on our next trip to the mall?

Picking up my clutch purse from the vanity, I leave the powder room, closing the door softly behind me. A passing party-goer smiles at me as I walk back down the hallway and I grin back, thinking he looks familiar and wondering where I've seen him before.

I have just reached the top of the grand staircase when it hits me ….. !

I have definitely seen him before – in the video the _Blackbird_ took of the hostage situation.

_He's one of Wolverine's handlers…._

My feet have turned and I am heading back down the hallway before I even realise I've made a conscious decision to follow him. What is he doing here? Are the X-Ops on a mission? Or is he simply here by invitation?

More importantly _– is Wolverine here?_

My feet skid to a halt on the plush carpet. Christ, if Wolverine's here then that _would_ mean the X-Ops are on a mission, wouldn't it? And if they're on a mission, then the sensible thing to do would be to alert the other X-Men and investigate before someone gets hurt. Or worse. _Yeah, sensible … but since when have I ever been sensible?_

I start moving again, my sandals making scarcely a sound as I backtrack my previous steps. Call me stupid if you will, but if Wolverine's here then I gotta know before I call for reinforcements. I gotta see him for myself – just once, _alone_ – before that moment is stolen from me.

So I reinforce my shields, ensuring that the Professor can't get through and sense my intent. _Stupid? Yeah, I know._

I turn a corner, positive that the handler came this way. The background chatter of the party down below gets fainter as I walk, my senses alert. I encounter no one else – there's really no need for anyone to be up here anyway and if I'm challenged I shall simply tell them I'm lost and play the damsel in distress. Who can resist the wiles of a sneaky female?

_Dammit, where did he go? _I'm sure he came this way. On impulse, I try several doors along the hallway, but all are locked. So, unless he has a key, he didn't go into any of the rooms. He has to have continued on. Stealthily, I creep to the next corner and peer around it before making the turn. There's no sign of the handler here either and another check of the nearest door proves fruitless. If I was intoxicated I could swear I had imagined the guy, but I'm not and I didn't. He's here, somewhere. I'm sure of it.

Up ahead, I can see another turn – this place has more twists than a rabbit warren – but I have just reached it when I am suddenly plunged into thick blackness. Startled, I freeze on the spot, ears straining for any sound or sign of movement. Instinct is screaming at me to light a firework, but training is telling me to stand fast, lest a light should make me a target. But I've never been good in the dark and my heart is pounding fit to burst. If I don't get myself under control I'm gonna disgrace myself on my first solo mission.

_Solo mission, eh? _The notion is absurd in the extreme, but somehow calming and I find myself breathing easier as I peer into the darkness. My eyes are beginning to adjust, although all I can make out are vague shapes and outlines, yet even that small mercy is enough to assure me that nothing is creeping up on me from the shadows. Feeling decidedly braver, I take stock of the situation …..

Okay, so there are no cries of alarm coming from elsewhere in the Embassy, so that means the blackout is localised. A quick check behind me reveals a soft glow coming from the intersection further back and my theory is confirmed. So if the lights have been taken out in this particular hallway, then that means that whatever is going down, it's going down in this very spot!

I allow myself a moment's preening. Scott would be so proud!

Vainly trying to suppress a surge of excitement, I creep forward, keeping my right hand on the wall as a guide. My left is clutching my little purse so tightly I can hear the sequins creak. I should put it down somewhere, leaving my hands free to fight, but its contents are precious to me and I'm not gonna leave it behind.

My body feels tingly all over, anticipation hiking up my adrenalin. Common sense dictates that I should abandon this track, go back and alert the others. But my feet are locked on course now and I can't persuade them to turn.

My ….. _feet …?_

I suddenly realise the floor beneath my sandals feels strangely sticky, sucking at my shoes as though reluctant to let me pass. Something oozes obscenely between my toes and I hold back a groan of revulsion. _Eww! What the hell's this? _Has someone spilt a drink here?

Taking a chance with the light, I let go of the wall and conjure up a low level firework, guiding it downwards, towards the floor …

What I see sends me jumping back sharply, only just managing to hold in a shriek. My firework goes out with a soft pop.

_Jesus …!_

Breathing rapidly into the darkness, I get my shaking hands back under control and summon another firework. Moving away from the wall slightly, I creep slowly forwards …..

The man slumped against the wall is most definitely dead, if the gaping slit to his throat is anything to go by. Blood has soaked the front of his suit and pooled around him on the floor. Footprints show where I stepped in it.

Swallowing reflexively, I take a step back. Okay, pride and curiosity be damned – I'm gonna fetch the others.

I turn, only to be brought up short by a strange noise – something like metal sliding against metal. There's a gargle and then a soft thump.

Okaaaaay, that was _not _a good noise. And it certainly wasn't the kind of noise you should be walking towards, but somehow I find myself advancing once more, my firework held before me like a shield. My control is shaky and the little ball of light trembles slightly above my hand, as though, it too, is scared of what lurks in the darkness. But this woman has faced Sentinels and Brood and lived to tell the tale – I'm not gonna let a scary sound in the dark send me high-tailing it back to the team.

Besides, what if somebody's in trouble and needs help?

How could I ever live with myself if I ran away?

There's an open doorway just beyond the dead body and I inch steadily towards it, trying to ignore the way the blackness seems to spill out of the room beyond like an evil blanket. I keep expecting something to come exploding out of that doorway at any moment – something all teeth and claw and murderous intent, if the past record of the X-Men is anything to go by – but nothing moves, and my confidence goes up a tad with each unmolested step. By the time I reach the threshold, my hands are steady and my heart has stopped trying to pound its way out of my chest and I feel as though I could take on Magneto and show him a thing or two.

The room is dark, illuminated only by the muted light coming from my firework. I lift it higher, revealing a desk set against one wall and the hint of bookshelves beyond. A study then. But who does it belong to? The guy in the hallway? Or someone else?

I take another step past the threshold, eyes darting to the shadows that dance along the walls, thrown there by my firework. The largest one looms just to the right of the desk, low to the floor, merging with the bulk of the furniture. If I squint just right it almost looks like someone crouching …

There is a low growl and the shadow shifts, rising to separate from the pool of darkness on the ground and I belatedly realise – _it's a man!_ And the dark shadow on the floor is the body of his victim!

Yelling out in a mixture of shock, embarrassment and anger, I fling my firework, already creating a second one as the first explodes in the face of the murderer, illuminating a shock of crested black hair behind a hastily thrown up hand.

Wait …!

_Wolverine …..?_

I arrest the forward motion of my next missile, just in time to see the feral shake his head like a dog, raising a big fist to swat at the spots that must be dancing in front of his eyes. The hair on the back of my neck prickles as an agitated growl rumbles deep in his throat.

_Okay, so maybe this wasn't such a good idea …._

Abruptly recognising me as the source of his pain and discomfort, Wolverine takes a step towards me, his shoulders hunched, and those blue eyes I have come to love and fantasize over are filled with portents of my death.

"Wolverine?"

My voice is low – shaky – barely more than a frightened whisper as he advances across the floor, shattering all my dreams into a million nightmares. I skitter backwards, panic forcing my feet into motion, but I somehow miss the doorway and fetch up against the jamb with a bone-jarring thump, my sense of direction shot all the way to hell an' back. I can't remember which way to turn and he's getting closer, his lips peeling back now to reveal wicked looking canines. A whimper escapes my throat even as a growl vibrates from his.

_Oh god … I'm going to die …._

Dropping my purse, I fling out my free hand, too afraid of facing my death in the dark to risk extinguishing my firework.

"Wolverine, _stop!"_

And stop he does – right in front of me. So close that I could reach up and touch his face. Up close like this, he's a frightening presence towering over me, but there's a stillness to him now, as if he can't quite figure out who I am and why I know his name.

I take a shuddering breath and drop my hand in case he tries to bite it. His eyes are lightening to that familiar silver-blue, but I can sense the wildness rolling off him in waves and somehow I know that he's barely holding it in check.

"Easy now," I whisper, softly. "It's okay. I'm a friend." _I hope. _Oh god, who would have thought that I would be face to face with the Wolverine like this? And at a charity ball, of all places? Am I dreaming? Did I have one too many glasses of champagne?

Wolverine chuffs a confused breath – I feel the warmth of it waft across my face and I know I am not dreaming this. He's really here! He seems to be studying me, tilting his head to the side in his confusion, and I inhale softly – he's so beautiful! Even with his face and fatigues splattered with the blood of his two victims, he radiates a sense of self and pride that most men would die for. But he's a murderer – I should feel repulsed by what he's done.

But I don't.

Before I can even consider the foolishness of what I am about to do, my hand is rising slowly, reaching for his face, aching to touch skin to skin. Wolverine's keen gaze flicks from my face to the hand, growling at it as though warning me not to come any closer, and I pause, doing my best not to look threatening.

"It's okay," I whisper. "I'm not going to hurt you."

And then I hear a soft movement behind me. Wolverine snarls, his line of sight shifting to something – or someone – just over my left shoulder. Belatedly sensing danger, I begin to turn, only to feel a sharp pricking sensation to my neck and my hand flies to the spot, my heart turning to ice as I find a small metal object embedded in the flesh there.

_Oh god, a dart! I've been drugged….!_

As my knees already begin to wobble, I see a man striding forward, holding a tranq gun – the same man I had been following through the hallways earlier – and I curse myself for my carelessness. Too late to do anything but make a valiant attempt at retaliation, I raise my hand to throw a firework, but my arms feel like leaden lumps and the missile goes wide, exploding uselessly against the wall. The hallway is spinning now and blackness is creeping closer. My next firework winks out with a faint pop as my concentration shatters.

As my legs give out and oblivion claims me, I am only dimly aware that Wolverine's strong arms catch me before I can hit the floor …. ..

**NEXT: **Jubilee in the hands of the X-Ops!


	6. Lamb to the Slaughter

****Hello, everyone! Chapter six at last! Sorry for taking so long, but better late than never I say!

Once again, I would like to thank all my wonderful reviewers! I really don't deserve you after making you all wait so long for my updates - but I am so grateful for your patience! Here we go - **BerserkerHellHound, KeitorinNara, babygames1, moviemom44, pinkskyline, adelphe24, Jeanniebird, We Run This, Wolvierules88, KatyaJade, bellislefan **and **Svartzvald! **Many thanks! Some of you have been around since my first story and some of you are new readers, but I value you all!

And now it's time for chapter 6! Onward!

**ooXoo**

**6. Lamb to the Slaughter**

"The girl, Wolverine. Give me the girl."

My handler steps into the darkened room, carefully holstering the gun he used to take the female down. He waggles his fingers, impatiently. "Now, Wolverine. We don't have time for this."

I should obey him. I know what will happen if I don't. Yet I hesitate, glancing down to the female slumped awkwardly in my arms. Her body feels strange pressed against mine – warm an' soft – a feeling that stirs unfamiliar urges within me. Her scent envelopes me in memories o' moonlit nights an' wild open spaces, an' my head spins with the dizzying assault on my senses, distractin' me from the threatening presence o' my handler. It's been a long time since I was this close to another living being – at least, one that I hadn't been ordered to kill. Yet even as I struggle to distance myself from the feel of her soft body pressing against mine, I can't help remembering that she threw light at me. Light that _hurt_ … light that came from her own bare hand.

Holding the female awkwardly with one arm, I lift her hand, keepin' it well away from my face in case it should spit the painful light once more, but it simply flops harmlessly on the end o' her wrist, lookin' tiny an' helpless compared to my own. Carefully, I spread her fingers, lookin' for ….. what? I don't know. Answers, maybe. There's a gnawing feelin' in the pit o' my stomach that's telling me this female is important in some way.

_She threw light from her hands …_

Does this mean …? Could she be … _like me?_

_Handler, where? _ I sign at Hanley. He looks confused for a moment, then shakes his head. "I don't know. It doesn't matter. Give her to me."

I snort my surprise. So we're _stealing_ the female then? Is this the way it works – a mutant remains the property of his or her handler until stolen or sold? Is this little female now to become one of our own?

A low growl breaches my lips. I can't remember anything o' my own arrival at the base. Believe me, I've tried, but there's just … nothing there. My earliest memory is of a tank o' blue-green liquid ….. needles stickin' in me – hurtin' me. I can still feel the liquid slidin' down my throat ….. drownin' me ….. over an' over again …

My breath catches. _Oh yeah, I remember that all too well ….._

"Wolverine!" I have ignored my handler – a cardinal sin. He steps forward, his face hard, already reaching for the device I know he keeps in an inside pocket an' I find myself hunchin' over the female, unconsciously hopin' to protect her from the effects o' the blue lightenin' even while knowin' it's a futile action. I should drop her – it's the only thing that'll keep her safe, yet I can't …. or won't …. an' I've doomed us both with that simple act o' stupidity.

"…the hell's this?" I hear a crunch as Hanley's foot comes down on something on the floor. Stooping, he picks it up – a small shiny thing – an' I remember ….. the female was carrying it earlier. Hanley studies it with a frown an' then thrusts it into a pocket before waggling his fingers at me. "The girl. Now, Wolverine." A dramatic sigh. "God knows why I'm so lenient with you. Gonna get me killed, one o' these days."

My punishment, it seems, is to be postponed. Grimly, barely holdin' a snarl in check, I allow Hanley to take the female from my arms, watchin' with a fierce pang o' possessive ire as he hoists her over his shoulder, leavin' one hand free to use a weapon if needed. He gestures for me to take the point.

Jus' for a moment, a haze o' red washes across my vision, my chest tightenin' with the sense o' dread that always precedes our return to base. My body craves freedom. Even the missions I accompany my handlers on – bloodsoaked as they are – offer some brief respite from the savagery o' the cages. I have often rebelled at this point – defying the collar's lightening to eke out a few more minutes o' precious liberty. But it is always an illusion. I am a creature bound to the whim of its handlers, my will theirs to command.

But this time, something is different. This time, a little female has shown me that not all muties are permanently watched over by their handlers. She's different, I'm sure of it.

An' I mean to find out why.

The next time my handler gestures towards the door, I step sharply to obey. Taking the point an' navigating the darkened hallways with instinctual ease, I lead the way to the basement an' our extraction point.

The bloodsoaked corpses I leave behind me are already a distant memory …

**oooOOOooo**

"She's not here, Professor." Scott Summers carefully lowered his voice so as not to attract the attention of either the bewildered party-goers or the police who were moving among them, taking statements. Beside him, Kitty looked shaken but quietly determined, her mind focused solely on finding their missing team-mate and friend. "We've phased through the entire Embassy and searched every room. If she was here, we would have found her."

"Whatever went down, I'm guessing Jubilee was right in the middle of it." Kitty paused to let a clearly agitated waiter pass by, then continued with her report. "We found the murder scene on the second floor. Two bodies. There were bloody footprints in the hallway, probably Jubilee's, but we couldn't hang around to investigate – the place is crawling with CSI."

"So there is every possibility that Jubilee stumbled upon the murder scene while wandering the hallways. The question is, did she do so before or after the murderer fled the scene?" Professor Xavier paused and scrubbed a hand across his face, feeling the onset of a psychic backlash coming on. The telepathic brain wasn't designed to sustain a constant scanning field of multiple minds, but that was exactly what he and Jean had been attempting for the last hour or so in an effort to locate their missing team-mate and the strain was beginning to make itself known. Tense lines around Jean's eyes bore mute testament to the pain his fellow telepath was also feeling and not voicing. He knew the same pain was also echoed on his own features, yet he dare not let up. With their physical movement limited by the police presence, their options – if they were to locate Jubilee quietly and without fuss – were limited.

Yet even as he forced his tired mind to worm its way further into the minds of potential witnesses, he couldn't shake the feeling that something – or someone – was blocking him somehow.

It was just over an hour since the bodies of Shingen Yashida and his bodyguard had been discovered, sending some of the more sensitive guests into hysterics and prompting the Lady Mariko to fall into a dramatic faint in the middle of the ballroom. By the time she had been revived and escorted to her private suite to recover, the police had arrived and corralled everyone in the ballroom, permitting no one to leave until statements had been taken and the crime scene secured.

With the whole place in chaos and guests milling around to try and gain snippets of information from everyone else, it was some time before Jubilee had been missed, a fact which irked the Professor greatly. He prided himself in being an excellent mentor to his X-Men, and to allow one of them to encounter a possible danger situation without being noticed was a source of great embarrassment and personal anger. However, he knew any form of self-recrimination would have to wait until their errant team-mate had been found and, knowing Jubilee, he also suspected that whatever had happened in the Embassy that evening his young X-Man – with her unfailing gift for enticing trouble – had fallen right in the thick of it.

Scott and Kitty had been immediately despatched to search the Embassy. It was an easy matter for the young mutant to glide unseen from room to room, pulling their team leader alongside her, he having being reluctant to allow her to conduct the search alone and the Professor instantly backing him up when he voiced this. When dealing with the unknown, two pairs of eyes were better than one.

However, with the search having turned up no trace of Jubilee other than a bloody footprint – which may or may not be hers – and his own telepathic scan proving fruitless, the Professor knew he now had only one means of action left open to him. If Jubilee was trailing the murderer – or worse, held captive – he needed to utilise the one thing capable of boosting his telepathic capabilities in order to locate her.

He needed to get to Cerebro.

If he could do this without drawing attention to himself and his team, so much the better – their one defence from the general populace who hated mutant-kind was their anonymity.

He waved to a young police officer, who was trotting past with a case marked CSI. "Excuse me, officer? I wonder if I and my party might be allowed to leave? It appears I have forgotten my medication in my excitement to be off this evening and I fear I may fall ill if I do not take it. May we depart?"

The young officer looked uncertain for a moment, but nevertheless held to his orders. "I'm sorry, sir, but no one is being permitted to leave until all statements have been taken."

"But surely, my medication …? Perhaps I could speak to your commanding officer?" Xavier gave the young man his most disarming smile.

To no avail. "He's very busy at the moment, sir. But we're speaking to the guests based on the guest list for this evening – perhaps I could suggest he moves your party to the top? That way you won't be detained for longer than necessary."

"That's very kind of you." Xavier inclined his head graciously and the police officer took this as his cue to leave, moving quickly away to carry out his task. "Well, that didn't go quite as well as I expected," the Professor admitted, ruefully. He knew he could have given the man's mind a slight 'push' to get what he wanted, but that had never been his way. He had a great and powerful gift and he had made up his mind as a young man to always use it responsibly, otherwise he was no better than those the X-Men sought to protect the rest of humanity from.

Storm placed her hand on the Professor's arm. "Professor, if Kitty phases us out, I could fly you back to the mansion," she suggested, her tone hopeful.

Xavier shook his head. "I am afraid that isn't possible, Ororo. If the police are checking the guest list, then we must remain and be present when they come to take our statements. None can leave or it will look suspicious and we must avoid making a scene at all costs."

Yet even as he spoke the words, he realised they already had a member of their party missing – one that couldn't be accounted for in any way but one.

With a heavy heart, he knew he now must do the one thing he had sworn never to do, or risk bringing the wrath of the law down upon their heads…

He had to break the rules…..

**oooOOOooo**

The medical bay was a veritable hive of activity, yet strangely silent as the six med-techs present went about their tasks, busily studying data and rechecking results. Hanley stood alone to one side, watching the proceedings with a cool eye. Still dressed in the tux he had worn to the mission the night before, his presence was merely decoration. He had no reason to be there other than mild curiosity. His responsibility to the girl strapped, naked and unconscious, to the operating table, was only due to the fact that he was the one who had brought her in. He felt no remorse for the life he may have ruined or the heartache he may have caused. She was a mutie and, as such, she had no life to call her own.

His eyes slid to the table once more and he wondered, not for the first time, how one of her kind had come to be at the Embassy party. Had she been on some kind of mission herself? And, more importantly, had she been operating alone or had there been more of them? The telepath accompanying Peters in the vehicle had said only that she'd been ordered to ensure no one would remember their presence if seen, not to scan for other muties – a sorry excuse for not carrying out her duties to the full if ever he'd heard one. He had no doubt she would be punished for her lack of co-operation. The only person who could answer these important questions now was the girl and she was still unconscious and likely to be down for hours. The tranq Hanley had shot her with was one specially prepared for Wolverine and, to be honest, he was surprised she was still alive.

The med staff had used this time to examine her fully, a procedure which, Hanley knew, could be quite unpleasant if the subject was conscious. Their examination complete, half the med staff were studying the findings, the other half were investigating her clothing. Her jewellery had been taken apart in search of bugs, tracking devices or weapons. Her expensive looking gown was now no more than scraps of diaphanous material – even the seams had been picked apart. But nothing had been found, not that Hanley expected them to. She was a mutie – a fact which one of the techs had happily confirmed not more than ten minutes ago. Muties had no need of external weapons or gadgets. They were a weapon unto themselves.

As the techs were focusing on the nature of her mutation as a matter of importance, the information Hanley was waiting for was yet to be released – namely, was she a viable breeder? While breeders were a valuable asset to the organisation, the handlers were sometimes allowed to use the barren females in any way they wished, as long as they didn't compromise their mission capability. And this female had certainly aroused Hanley's interest. She was exotically beautiful, with smooth creamy skin and pert breasts that just cried out to be bitten. Her hair, loosed from its pins, spilled over the edge of the table like black silk. Hanley could almost imagine the feel of it between his fingers as he held her still for the taking ….

The med-bay door swished open, admitting his partner, Peters. On arrival at the base, he had departed immediately to attend the debriefing on behalf of the mission team, leaving Hanley to settle Wolverine in his cage and hand the girl to the eager med-techs. Damp hair and a fresh uniform announced that he had visited his quarters to freshen up before seeking his partner.

"How's it going?" he asked, as he drew near.

Hanley shrugged. "She's a mutie, but then I knew that anyway. I saw her throw light from her hands. Jesus, if she'd hit me …"

"Wolverine would have taken her down," Peters stated, confidently.

"But that's just it – would he have done?" Hanley shook his head. "I told you, Peters, she was … she was _talking _to him. And he was _listening!"_

"Yeah, well, he wouldn't have listened for long. You know Wolverine when he's faced with something he doesn't understand." Peters made an unsheathing and slashing motion with his hand. "Shish kebab city, man!"

Hanley nodded, but somehow he didn't feel any confidence in his partner's words. Wolverine hadn't been agitated when he arrived on the scene – he'd actually been calm. And he'd only become agitated when Hanley had taken the girl down…..

"Head's up, the boss's here." Peter's indicated the med-bay's observation level with a slight nod. "Come to see our newest acquisition. Bet the bastard gets first use o' her if she's not a breeder."

Hanley hissed. "Keep your voice down! He's got ears everywhere!"

Peters laughed and slapped his friend on the shoulder. "S'okay, m'man! If he's up there, then he's not spying from his desk now, is he? Relax!"

"All the same, I'd be happier if you'd keep your thoughts to yourself. You know what happened to Reeves."

"That's just a rumour. Listen, I'm gonna head out for a smoke. Got any on you? I left mine in my other jacket."

"I knew there would be a reason you came to find me other than friendship." Hanley scowled, but began patting his pockets. "You'll owe me a couple, okay? Got some here somewhere, I'm sure of it ….. What the hell's this?" His searching hands pulled a small glittery object from his inside pocket. "The girl's bag! I'd forgotten about it."

"Open it," prompted Peters, with a nudge. "But be careful – there may be a bomb."

"Oh, haha." Hanley opened the small clutch purse and began rummaging around inside. "Lessee … lipstick …..perfume … some small change … Oh ….Oh Jesus …"

"What is it?"

"I think we've just been compromised." Hanley pulled a photograph from the bag and held it out for Peters to see. "Where the hell did she get this?"

"Give me that!"

Both men jumped slightly as General Caplin's voice sounded from right beside them, realising they had not seen him descend from the observation level. Quickly regaining his composure, Hanley handed over the photograph, watching as his superior studied it with unfeeling eyes.

"Now how do you suppose this small slip of a girl managed to get hold of a photograph of one of our top operatives?" the General finally asked, fixing each of his men in turn with an accusing glare.

"I ….. I don't know, sir." Hanley didn't like where this was heading.

"She's a plant, you fool! A trap! And you walked right into it." Caplin threw the photograph down onto the floor and stalked away to glare down at the girl, leaving his men to stare in obvious dismay at the image of Wolverine she had carried in her bag.

Hanley didn't like to ask the question, but it had to be voiced. "What are we going to do, sir?"

"Do? I should have you thrown out on your ear, Hanley, that's what I should do! I should feed you and your partner to the ferals."

Peters wisely stayed silent, even though he was being implicated in something that, technically, wasn't his fault. The whole med-bay had gone deathly still, cowed by Caplin's displeasure, and the General took full advantage of the exposure, basking in his power.

He allowed his men to stew in their own juices for a time before turning to pass judgement. "You have never displeased me before now, Hanley, so I am willing to be lenient." He was also the only one of his handlers who'd ever had any success with keeping Wolverine under control, but Caplin wasn't foolish enough to tell him that and give the boy a possible bargaining chip. "However, if you or your partner do anything in the future to gain my disapproval … well, let's just say you won't ever displease me again. Understood?"

"Understood, sir." Hanley stood to attention, all kinds of unpleasant images running through his mind. Had his partner been wrong? Were the rumours actually true?

"As for what to do with the girl …" Caplin turned his attention back to the captive, missing the pointed glance that passed between his two handlers. "She will have to be disposed of. A pity to waste such fine mutie potential, but we need to send a message to those who planted her. We will leave her mutilated body outside the Embassy where her mission began. As for how …." he tapped a finger thoughtfully against his chin, pausing for dramatic effect. He already had it all figured out. "She seems to have been targeted on Wolverine, so let's give her what she wants." He turned back to the handlers. "Begin pumping the aggressor into his cell. And bring the girl around. I want her to be awake when he starts tearing her to pieces."

"Yes, sir!"

As Hanley and Peters stepped smartly to carry out their General's bidding, Hanley's only regret was that he wouldn't get to take the girl after all …..

**NEXT: **Wolverine and Jubilee! In the same cell! YIKES!


	7. Dead XMan Walking

****Hey, everyone! I've come to realise that you will either love me or hate me for this chapter! Because while writing it, my pen just went on and on and pretty soon I knew it was going to be too long for just a normal chapter length! And so I decided to split it, and give you a cliffie! Please don't hate me! In consolation, the next chapter is almost finished and will be uploaded very soon after this one, so at least you won't have long to wait!

Once again, thanks for all your wonderful reviews! A big hello to **Katya Jade, moviemom44, Jeanniebird, bleebloop, bellislefan, Wolvierules88, JamesoftheMeadow, ImmiD **and **BoneRanger89!**

****As always, enough from me - on with the story!

**ooXoo**

**7. Dead X-Man Walking**

**Jubilee: Now **-

If there's one thing I've grown to dislike during my tenure with the X-Men, it's that dreadful feeling of displacement that always follows being knocked out by the bad guy. It's a sensation not entirely dissimilar to being drunk – an' if you think that doesn't sound so bad, consider how the glass of water feels.

There's a moment of glorious ignorance when you hover just on the cusp of waking, before reality crashes in and the brain suddenly snaps back into focus with a startled "_Hey, were we just rendered unconscious again? Roll call! Snap to it, guys!"_

I'm past the blissful ignorance stage and into the Oh-god-where-am-I? stage. But training kicks in even as I slowly fight my way up through the veils of fog that cloud my mind and I remain perfectly still, giving nothing away. If my captors are still around, let them think I'm still unconscious while I regain my strength and figure out a way to fling fireworks when my fingers feel like silly string.

So now that I'm awake, let's see if I can work out what's going on. I can feel something hard and unyielding around my wrists – possibly my ankles too – so I am obviously restrained, and this may also be the reason why my hands feel so numb. With this in mind, I begin to slowly catalogue the rest of my body, carefully flexing muscles, checking for injury and …wait! What's that? I feel ….

The panic hits me so suddenly that I almost cry out and give myself away, but manage to contain myself just in time. Oh god …. what has happened to me? I'm naked ….. and the dull ache I can feel between my legs …..

_Oh god ….. have I been raped?_

No ….. no wait. Get a grip, girl, and use your brains. The room smells of ….. of chemicals …. antiseptic. This is a medical bay. Have I … have I been given an internal examination?

_What the hell have I gotten myself into this time?_

"There is no use in pretending any longer, mutie. We know you're awake."

I jump at the sound of the voice coming from right beside me. I was so wrapped up in my thoughts that I didn't even know anyone was there and if I'm gonna come out of this …whatever 'this' is …. alive, then I'd better buck my ideas up and start acting like an X-Man. This is not the first time I've been in the clutches of a mutant-hating maniac and it definitely won't be the last.

_Time to wake up and face the music, Jubilee._

Though my heart is beating wildly, I open my eyes and look up into the face of the man standing beside me. Quickly, I memorise details. Some kind of uniform, possibly military. Heavyset body beneath, but its all muscle, not fat - this guy obviously works out. Hard features and even harder eyes, lips set in a cruel line – the face of a man accustomed to giving orders and expecting them to be obeyed without question.

I expect no mercy from this man and give none in return.

"Release me at once!" I demand in my best fearless leader imitation. "You have no right to hold me like this."

The man smiles, the expression looking strange as though he is unused to it. "No right? You are a mutie, young lady, and that gives me every right." And before I can even think of a witty response to that one, he gestures to two other men who have been standing back out of my immediate line of sight.

Their hands are on me before I can even process what's happening, but I try to remain calm when I realise they are only releasing the restraints. Time to act the part of the bewildered female until my hands are free …..

"Hey hey, what're you doing?" I struggle against the restraints still holding me down, distracting attention from my one already freed hand, where my numb fingers are wiggling to regain feeling. "Get your paws off me!" I kick out at the man near my feet as he frees an ankle, catching him on the elbow and prompting a surprised grunt of pain.

_Not accustomed to your victims fighting back, eh? Well, wait until you get a load of this!_

My firework is formed and on the fly before anyone can react to the threat, but my head is still woozy and my aim is off – it whizzes past the ear of the guy at my feet and explodes noisily against the wall behind him.

_Dammit!_

I am suddenly looking down the business end of a large and very lethal looking pistol.

"Try that again an' I'll blow your fucking head off."

Well, there really isn't any arguing with that, is there? I follow the arm holding the pistol all the way up to the face and here my breath suddenly catches in my throat because I recognise this guy! He's the one I followed at the Embassy! The one who shot me!

And now I know for certain where I am, even though I foolishly didn't want to admit it to myself before.

_I'm in the hands of the X-Ops …._

"You are not going to do that again because, believe me, you won't like finding out what I'm capable of if you do," the guy with the gun tells me. "Understand?"

I nod dumbly and the other guy – blondie – pulls me off the table and sets me roughly on my feet. He looks kinda familiar too and it only takes a second to recall where I've seen him before. The video …..

"You're Wolverine's handlers!" I blurt out and then belatedly realise my mistake as all three men exchange pointed glances. Mentally, I give myself a kick. When will I ever learn to keep my big mouth shut?

"Take her away," the one in charge orders, brusquely, and I wonder if I've just signed my own death warrant.

"What are you going to do with me?" I ask, breathlessly, as Blondie secures my hands behind my back with a pair of restraints.

"Don't worry," Pistol assures me. "We're not going to hurt you."

They drag me from the room and out into a sterile white corridor, where everything suddenly becomes a blur of hallways, lifts and stairs, as I am ushered through the complex. I do my best to memorise the route, but it all looks the same and it's not long before I am hopelessly lost.

My legs feel weak and wobbly – I think I would have fallen flat on my face if these two thugs weren't holding me up. And my head is thumping. It must be the after-effects of whatever Pistol shot me with. My fireworks make me one of the most powerful mutants on the planet yet, right now, I probably couldn't fight my way out of a wet paper bag. I have to buy myself some time until I'm strong enough to make a bid for freedom. And if that means making conversation with the bad guys, then so be it.

"You won't be able to keep me here," I remark airily, as we go down several levels in an elevator. It's false bravado and I'm sure that _they_ know that _I_ know it, but my mouth has always had the bad grace to flap when I'm scared and outnumbered. "My friends will find me," I point out, helpfully. "They'll find me and rescue me and then you'll _really _be in trouble."

Not the best thing to say when you're handcuffed naked between two burly guys. Way to go, Jubilee.

"No one will ever find you here," Pistol actually favours me with a response, even if it is one I'd rather not hear. "The base is protected against the likes of you."

I think he would have said more, but Blondie nudges his arm and they both fall silent once more, leaving me to mull over the implications of what he's just told me. Protected? By what?

And as we step out of the elevator and start down another corridor, I can't help replaying the words that Pistol spoke to me in the medical room, and the weird accentuation he put on one particular word ….

_We're _not going to hurt you …..

Almost as though someone else was meant to …..

**oooOOOooo**

**Wolverine: 10 minutes ago –**

_What's happening to me …?_

I've been feeling antsy for hours now, makin' me pace back an' forth across my cage like the tiger I once saw down in the animal pens. My skin is crawlin' as though a million ants are burrowing into it an' my claws are demandin' to be released. To take the edge off, I have slid them forward until the tips are just piercin' the skin, but the pain is not helping me to focus like it usually does. If anything, it's makin' it worse an' I howl in frustration, wanting – _needing_ – to sink my teeth an' claws into something an' make the feelings go away. Death usually follows when I am out o' control like this – when the red haze finally recedes, my hands are always covered in gore an' there's a taste o' blood in my mouth.

Who's life am I gonna end today, I wonder …?

**oooOOOooo**

**Jubilee: Now –**

I really don't like this area we have come to. There are mutants here, locked in cells with heavy metal doors. Some come to the bars and watch as we pass by, every one of them silent as though afraid to draw attention to themselves, and I can see the sadness in their eyes – the dreadful absence of hope. A big hairy man, slightly different from the rest, growls at us as we pass by, baring his teeth at me and checking me out thoroughly with dark eyes that raise goosebumps on my skin. Something about him makes me feel uneasy and I try to hide my nakedness behind the bulk of Blondie's body. When he realises what I'm doing he laughs and pushes me forward.

There are guards here too, patrolling the corridors with big guns. They have the look of men who enjoy dishing out pain and I curl my hands into fists within the restraints, my fingers itching to throw fireworks and dish out some pain of my own. The people here are barbaric, hiding their evil behind red tape and clever lies. They've concealed their corruption from the general public by duping them into believing the X-Operatives are a benevolent organisation, dedicated to making the world a better place. But in reality, it's nothing more than a prison for mutant-kind – worse, a prison where mutants are forced to put their lives in danger for men who consider them expendable. They believe themselves untouchable. But the X-Men will expose the cover-up, of that I have no doubt. They will come for me and they will tear this place to pieces to find me. And if I manage to free myself before they arrive, then so much the better. Nothing would give me more satisfaction than to introduce Pistol and Blondie to my own brand of destruction.

We stop at a door about two thirds of the way down the corridor and Pistol covers me while Blondie punches a code into the electronic lock. I tense as he moves behind me to release my restraints. If ever there was a time to act, it's gotta be now. But the second my restraints are free – while my hands are still in the process of forming a firework – he shoves me between the shoulder blades, sending me stumbling into the room. Losing my footing, I sprawl across the floor, banging my already dizzy head on the floor so hard that I literally see stars. Groaning in pain, I hear the door bang shut as if from a great distance away ….

….. and something growls ominously from the corner behind me …

Without turning around, I immediately scramble across the floor on my hands and knees, aiming to put distance between myself and whatever is in here with me before it pounces. _Christ, that sound! _They've caged me in here with an enraged animal ….!

I reach the far wall and flip around, just in time to see something large and heavy spring at me from the opposite corner. There is an unearthly howl – the flash of light off dripping canines …..

I scream ….

…. and fling out my hands to defend myself ….

**oooOOOooo**

**Wolverine: one minute ago –**

She's here! The little female is here! Her scent teases me – faint yet, but growing stronger all the time, unable to be masked by the hated stink o' my two handlers. I've only been near her the once, but I'd know her scent anywhere now, already imprinted into my memory. My body reacts to the stimuli even as I keen softly in anticipation o' seeing her again, my hands shaking as I imagine holdin' her against me once more. I crave her softness – to hear her gentle tones callin' my name – an' in a moment o' startling lucidity I remember her capture an' realise that she is to become one of us now. In all likelihood, I will never see her again, unless I am drawn to face her in the arena, an' a wave o' sadness washes over me because I have killed there an' I know I will be forced to do so again. Even if it's her. An' all the time her scent is getting stronger as the memories recede an' the rage blurs my vision once more …

They've stopped. They're outside my door. An' suddenly I know what is expected o' me an' I back off into a corner, fightin' the compulsion to kill even as my shoulders hunch an' my lips peel back into a snarl. It's happening again an' I can't control myself ….

I crouch an' hold my head in my hands, tryin' to hold the madness back, squeezin' my eyes shut against the terrible images o' death that lurk behind them. I do not see my door open, but the female's scent intensifies an' when I lift my head she is lying sprawled across the floor. A stillness comes over me as I recognise my prey ….

I allow a low growl to rumble in my throat – a warning before the attack – an' the female reacts as all the others have done before her, fear clogging up her scent as she scrabbles to get away from me an' unwittingly peaking my interest. My hunter/prey instincts ignited, I howl in anticipation an' leap for the kill …..

….an' suddenly find myself hurtlin' back into the corner, my face full o' bright burnin' light. I hit the wall an' drop like a ton weight, but I am up again in a heartbeat, my hands clenching as I unsheathe my claws. The little female's eyes widen at the sight o' them an' I imagine her screams as she feels them sliding into her soft flesh.

She hurt me an' now she's gonna pay ….

**NEXT: **A fight for survival!


	8. Irresistible Force

****Hello there! Welcome to the second half of the Wolverine and Jubilee show! Hope you're not too mad at me for splitting their meeting into two parts!

Once again, thanks for all of your reviews - **BerserkerHellHound, moviemom44, Jeanniebird, We Run This, swartzvald, Katya Jade **and **kimmer kins! **I appreciate all your thoughts and comments - except for ones that just say 'the chapter was too short' or 'you're not updating enough'! I already know this, so don't stress me out!

Time for the rest of the tale - onward!

**ooXoo**

**8. Irresistible Force**

**Jubilee:**

_Ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod ….!_

It's the Wolverine! But he's crazed …. out for blood! _My _blood! An' if I don't think of something quick, he's gonna get it!

_He's about to lunge again ….._

I fling another handful of fireworks, driving him back against the wall. I was hoping to knock him out, but all I've done is make him even angrier. _God, that growling! _And those things in his hands – what the hell are they? Are they part of him?

_Oh Lord, he's coming again – what am I gonna do? _I don't want to hurt him, but he'll kill me if I don't stop him. _Think, Jubilee, think!_

"Stay back! Don't come any closer!"

Brilliant, Jubilee, as if he's gonna – no, wait! He hesitated, I'm sure of it. Does he ….. does he recognise my voice, from before?

"Wolverine?"

I say his name softly and also drop my hands to look less threatening and this time there is a definite reaction, if only for a second or two. He tilts his head sideways, like a curious dog faced with something it doesn't understand, his brow furrowing in concentration. The angry growl turns into a chuff of surprise, and my hopes lift, but then a shudder passes through his body and he snorts at me, almost as though he is chiding me for trying to fool him. When he starts forward once more, he holds those things in his hands in front of him like a shield, as if inviting me to look and see how sharp they are. I take a rain check on the offer and try to back off slightly to put some distance between us, but I am already flat up against the wall an' there is nowhere else for me to go. I think Wolverine knows it too, because he stops and snarls at me, showing those wicked looking canines, and I get the feeling he is trying to scare me into doing something stupid. _Christ, what should I do? _I know nothing about ferals – should I act unafraid and look him in the eye or let him dominate and keep my eyes on the ground? The wrong decision could cost me my life as sure as my name is Jubilation Lee.

I keep getting flashes of that night at the Embassy – the moment I first realised Wolverine was coming to me through the shadows. This could almost be a replay of that same scenario, only this time – if I'm not careful – I will be playing the part of the bloody corpse on the floor.

Wait ….they were expecting this, weren't they? That's why they put me in here. Pistol and Blondie – they were counting on Wolverine ripping me to shreds.

_Well, fuck 'em both. I'm not gonna give 'em the satisfaction._

However, surviving this encounter also involves getting Wolverine clued in on the plan, which isn't gonna be easy. He has been watching me with a wary eye, as if trying to work out what I'm thinking. Newsflash: saving my life is my chief priority right now, boyo, so I gotta make my move before someone comes to investigate and gets him all growly again.

Despite his aggression, he appears reluctant to stage an all-out attack. Could this be through fear of me and of what I can do? Seems unlikely – he's way bigger than I am and built like a linebacker. He could take me down easily if he really wanted to. Which suggests that no matter how snarly and cross he appears on the outside, he doesn't really want to hurt me.

So let's put that theory to the test, shall we?

Slowly, I inch forward, talking softly all the while, telling him that it'll all be okay – _I hope – _and that there's nothing to be afraid of. He keeps his eyes on me the whole time, growling way down in his throat, and I feel as though I am walking willingly into the lion's den. I'm not sure if it's the bravest, or the most foolish, thing I've ever done, but my options are limited. I either drop my guard and wait for Wolverine to gut me, or take the bull by the horns and try to talk my way out.

It's all or nothing.

I'm probably about an arms-length away from him when everything hits the fan.

On reflection, I must have said or done something to make him feel threatened, because he suddenly lunges for me in a blur of motion, and all I can see are those silver claws coming right for my face. I shriek and back-peddle rapidly, but he's fast and crashes into me before I get far, bearing me down to the floor in a tackle that knocks all the breath from my lungs. And suddenly he is right there on top of me, his heavy body pressing me down as he snarls viciously in my face. I feel the touch of cold metal on my skin and cry out in fear as he pushes those claw things into my throat.

"Wolverine, no! Please, _no!"_

I don't expect him to stop – I honestly expect to die a painful and bloody death – but stop he does, and I open the eyes I hadn't realised I had squeezed shut in fright to look directly up into his. They are the deepest black – not the beautiful blue I have fantasised about – and they scare me because I am looking into the unknown. They are the eyes of an animal.

He blinks slowly at me and pulls his lips back in a snarl that almost makes my heart stop. The claw against my throat presses deeper as I swallow and he tracks the movement with those black eyes, my whole body vibrating with the growl that is rumbling through his chest. But whatever his intent, he hasn't killed me yet and I take some small amount of comfort from that.

I raise a trembling hand and place it gently on his. _Oh god, I'm so scared – please don't let him kill me. _His fist is warm, but tense, and I can feel the muscles bunching beneath the skin.

"Wolverine, please. Ease up a little, okay?"

For the longest time, he is still except for that unnerving growl and each second feels like an eternity as I wait to feel the slice of cold metal at my throat. But then, ever so slowly, he cocks his head and moves his fist downwards. The claws are still there, but no longer pressing into my skin and I take a shuddering breath, thankful that I am still alive. Okay, so I'm still scared, but I can deal with that.

"That's very good, Wolverine," I approve, shakily. I can hear the nervousness in my own voice and I hope that Wolverine doesn't hear it too because I've no idea how he'll react. They say that mad dogs attack when they scent fear – God help me if this holds true for the feral laying on top of me right now.

"Thank you for moving your hand, Wolverine," I continue, carefully. I've no idea if he can understand what I'm saying or not, but I'm keeping my tone soft and gentle, hoping this will reach him if my words can't. "Do you think you could get off me? You're really heavy and the floor's cold."

And that really isn't the half of it. Truth is, I have never felt so aware of my own nakedness as I do right now. I can feel every inch of my skin as Wolverine's body presses down on it – the thin T-shirt and sweatpants he is wearing doing absolutely nothing to disguise the hardness of his muscles. And his heat ….! He's like a furnace, burning up with rage. I can feel an answering fire beginning to burn in my own belly and I know that, under different circumstances, this whole situation would be highly erotic.

I jump as he suddenly ducks his head, fearing a bite from those deadly canines, but he merely sniffs at my hair, making soft whiffly noises in my ear. I can feel his hot breath against my neck and my heart pounds an answering rhythm, trying to beat its way out of my chest and into his. When he draws back and looks down at me in confusion, I raise a trembling hand and place it against his cheek. My fingers slide into his mutton-chops, expecting to feel coarse hair but finding it soft and silky instead. My eyes track upwards to the crests that frame his head and I long to touch and find out if they are as soft and springy as they look, but I know I am courting danger with my boldness and this seems to be confirmed when Wolverine abruptly jerks away from my hand and growls at it as if remembering what it can do. I immediately lower it to the floor beside me, but I know now that Wolverine dropped his guard with me for a moment and if he can do it once, he can do it again.

"Easy now," I whisper softly, fixing onto those deep black eyes with my own and striving to convince him of my sincerity. "I'm not going to hurt you, you know that, don't you? I'm sorry if I hurt you before, but you scared me, being all big and growly like that."

He is quiet as he listens to my voice, giving nothing away, but I know now how volatile and quick he is, and I understand how easily he could end my life if he suddenly decided to. But I carry on talking – sometimes praising him and complimenting him, but mostly assuring him that I won't hurt him, that I'm his friend and he can trust me. And still he listens, although he never puts those claw things away and he doesn't ease off the pressure on my body. I don't know how long we lie there – it feels like hours and one of my legs goes numb – but I don't give up on either him or me. Whatever the Weapon X people have done to him, there is a soul in this man somewhere – I'm sure of it – and I aim to reach it for both our sakes.

It all begins with the faintest hint of blue outlining those black eyes – so slight that I almost miss it. Heart pounding, I double my efforts, speaking now of my life at the mansion, drawing him in, making him want to be a part of it. And all the while that outline expands, eating away the black until, with a sudden surge, they snap back to normal and I am looking into the icy blue depths that have haunted my dreams since I first learned of the Wolverine's existence.

And just like that, we are both in uncharted territory ….

I hold my breath, unsure of myself now that the rules of the game appear to have changed. Wolverine looms above me, seeming calmer now, but still with that air of menace that obviously makes him so desirable to the X-Op project. He seems to be studying me carefully, and I feel like a bug caught under the magnifying lens of a microscope. I can almost feel the heat of his gaze as his eyes rove my face, lingering on my mouth before sliding down my neck and watching my pulse beat under my skin. I take an involuntary breath, jolting his fist slightly with the movement and making the light glint off the metal of his claws. He appears shocked to see them so close to my throat and I jump as they snap abruptly back into his wrist. Wolverine snorts at me and rears back onto his haunches, freeing my body from his considerable weight. A heartbeat later and I am scrambling out from under him, scooting back against the wall and wrapping my arms around myself in shock. As the enormity of what I've just gone through hammers down on me, I drop my head into my hands and force myself to take deep, calming breaths.

_I'm alive …_

**Wolverine:**

It's over.

The rage has passed, calmed by the female an' her words. It's still there, simmering under the surface, but I have it under control now an' my actions are again my own. She talked me down. She was scared an' in fear of her life an' yet still she talked me down.

She is calmer now. The scent coming from her to me is clear an' pure, an' I breathe her deep, letting her essence ground me. She looks up at the sound, her eyes wide an' soulful like a deer's, an' my gut twists at the memory o' my claws at her throat. I could have ended her life so easily. I am big an' strong – a fine healthy male – an' death is no stranger to me, yet I take no pleasure from stealing the life of an innocent. An' this female is innocent, I am sure o' that. She has not threatened the handlers, nor has she compromised a mission, yet somehow my masters have seen fit to finish her. Why? What has she done to worry them so?

She is studying me now, looking me over without fear, an' I can't help puffing out my chest, letting her see my strength an' vitality. When her eyes drop to my hands, I flex my fingers uncomfortably, feeling ashamed. I scared her with my claws, I know that now, yet she touched my hand, even while they were still unsheathed. No one has ever done that – not without risking a limb for the affront. She controls her fear well, this female. Not many can face me an' still have the courage to look me in the eye.

While she is checkin' me out I remain on my haunches, lettin' my hands rest safely across my knees. An' now I allow myself to return the compliment. Her knees are drawn up with her arms around them an' she is blockin' the view, but I already know she is soft an' curvy, with hips that would support strong, healthy cubs. But I can see her eyes clearly an' they are the purest blue, the colour o' the sky above the mountains on a clear day. They were the first thing I saw as the rage dissipated an' they grounded me, bringin' me back from the dark place an' restoring my sanity. I could seal my soul forever in their depths.

She spoke to me – an' I wanna do the same. There are so many things I want – _need – _to ask her, but after so long without words I don't know how. I try signing – _You? Where? –_ but she frowns at me in confusion, giving me the answer to another of my questions. Wherever she is from, she converses freely with her handlers, otherwise she would know the hand-words.

She startles as a shadow darkens the doorway, but it is only a keeper with food. The female remains seated against the wall, but I notice she tries to hide her nakedness as my food is pushed through the trap at the bottom o' the door. The tray skates across the floor an' comes to rest only inches from my knee, but I stop my hand from reaching for it when the female's face goes white.

I guess she isn't fed on raw rabbit too often where she comes from ….

**Jubilee:**

_Oh my god, is he gonna eat that?_

I blanche and look away, but he leaves it untouched on the metal tray, doing my stomach a huge favour. He seems much calmer now, almost a different person, although the way he is checking me out seems slightly creepy. He reminds me of a big cat – silent, but deadly.

And what's with the weird signing? Is that how he communicates? Can't he talk? Maybe not – I've only ever heard him growl and snarl. Henry suggested that ferals are little more than animals, with limited intelligence, yet when I look into Wolverine's eyes I know there is a man in there somewhere. These X-Op bastards may have buried it deep, but I refuse to believe that Wolverine is nothing more than a wolf in a man's clothing.

I jump as the lights in the cell suddenly dim. _Geez, I'm getting skittish – that's twice now._ I look around anxiously, but Wolverine seems unconcerned. My sense of time is shot all to hell an' back – could it be evening already? Maybe so, but _which _evening? How long have I been here?

Are the X-Men even now speeding to rescue me?

Wolverine begins to make a soft, growly kind of purr and the sound, coupled with the semi-darkness and my recent scare, begins to make me feel sleepy. I fight it, I really do, but I have been through too much and my body calls time out. Even as I struggle to stay awake, my eyelids grow heavier and heavier ….

**Wolverine:**

The female sleeps. I wait until her breathin' evens out, then slowly stand an' strip off my T-shirt. On quiet feet, I pad to the female's side an' drape it over her naked body, half expectin' – _hoping – _that she will wake an' see me there. But she slumbers on an' I return to my exact spot on the floor an' sit, resuming my vigil.

When I am sure she is deeply asleep an' not likely to wake, I pull the food tray closer an' eat my rabbit …

**oooOOOooo**

General Caplin was working out in his private gym when the emergency call came in from Central Control. Knowing his people were efficient and not inclined to panic, he responded immediately, hopping off the treadmill where he had been running timed laps, and moving quickly to the monitor on the wall. The face of his Control Chief greeted him.

"Ferris. Report."

"Sir, there's been an incident in one of the mutie cages. I'll patch it through to your location."

Caplin studied the image on screen for mere seconds before punching the intercom. "Hanley. Peters. My office. Ten minutes." He was about to turn away when he thought better of it and opened the channel to the medical bays. "Dr Chandra?"

A brief pause, then – "Sir?"

"An incident has been brought to my attention which I believe you will find most interesting. Be so kind as to meet me in my office in ten minutes."

"Sir."

And then he broke contact.

By the time he had changed out of the military issue tracksuit into attire more becoming a commanding officer and moved into the adjacent office, his two bewildered handlers were already waiting for him by the desk, occasionally exchanging worried glances. The more serene presence of his chief medical officer was doing nothing to ease their discomfort.

Acknowledging them all with a brief nod, Caplin moved behind the desk and brought up

the interior image for cell number 458-25-243. The two handlers' expressions went from bewildered to downright dumbstruck.

"Can either of you explain why a female I ordered to be terminated at least four hours ago is still alive and well?" Caplin asked, walking from behind the desk to fix each of his handlers with a harsh stare. "Need I remind you of the penalty for disobeying a direct order?"

"Sir! No, sir!" Hanley glanced nervously at the screen, where Wolverine was tearing animatedly into a rabbit haunch. The girl, seemingly asleep, was curled up on the floor against the wall. "I don't understand what could have gone wrong."

"We stayed just long enough to see Wolverine pin her to the floor," Peters added, hoping that honesty was their best policy. "We figured it was pretty much over after that and left before the blood started flying. I'm sorry if we were at fault, sir."

"Spare me the excuses, soldier. You're fortunate that this oversight has merely opened other doors." He shifted his attention to his medical officer. "Dr Chandra, am I right in assuming that Wolverine has never failed to kill under the effects of the aggression agent?"

"Completely, sir." Dr Chandra's eastern looks made her something of a beauty, but her love for exploratory surgery and medical experimentation – particularly on the still-living mutant subject – had isolated her from the civilian populace and made her perfect for Caplin's regime. Some called her cruel – he preferred to use the term 'efficient'. "In over sixty documented cases, Wolverine has always performed as expected when subjected to the agent."

"Until now." Caplin tapped the screen, drawing attention back to the image displayed there. "What's so different about this female that he would negate the effects of the aggressor for her?"

"Could she have some kind of mind control ability?" suggested Hanley.

Chandra shook her head. "That is highly unlikely. Mutants very rarely have two primary mutations. Mind control and, to a lesser degree, telekinesis or telepathy, yes. But not two wildly differing abilities. It goes against the very laws of mutation."

"Theories, doctor?" asked Caplin expectantly, already assuming his medical officer had an explanation or two up her sleeve.

Chandra leaned towards the screen, her dark eyes shining the way they always did when she was faced with something that intrigued her. "If I was to put forward an idea, I would say that the girl has piqued his interest. See how he's watching her, almost as if standing guard over her? It wouldn't surprise me to learn that he already views her as his."

"His? As in …. Christ, are you saying he wants to have sex with her?" Hanley couldn't believe what he was hearing.

"Technically, with ferals, it would be called 'mating', but I believe that is the gist of the idea, yes." Chandra smiled around at her companions before turning back to the screen. "This is actually quite exciting. We have been trying to breed from Wolverine for years, but he has refused every female we have presented to him and artificial insemination has proved fruitless. If we could get him to accept this female naturally, there is every possibility he would sire young on her. I assume she is a valid breeder?"

"She is," confirmed Caplin, with a nod.

"Then the possibility of her producing young is entirely feasible."

"You're sure about this?" Caplin studied the screen for a moment before turning back to his CMO. "You're confident you can get results?"

Chandra frowned. "You have to understand, General, that as ferals go, Wolverine has never reacted according to type. Yes, he is volatile and unpredictable, but he is also intelligent and sly, and that makes him extremely dangerous. According to our records, he has killed at least sixteen handlers in the past fifteen years and has maimed countless members of my medical staff. He was single-handedly responsible for the massacre that almost shut down the project before it was reallocated to your capable command, General. So if Wolverine even suspects he is being manipulated in any way, he will balk and most likely kill the girl just to spite us, of that I have no doubt. However, with the right stimulus, I am confident I can obtain desirable results."

"What do you need?" Caplin was seasoned enough to know there would be conditions.

Chandra didn't disappoint. "Complete control of the project. Unlimited access to Central Control and its assigned staff. And, most importantly, unlimited resources at my disposal."

"Agreed." Caplin would have granted her the moon if he thought it would guarantee Wolverine breeding with the girl. He turned to his handlers. "The girl is now yours. Get her collared."

"We'll have to requisition one from stores," pointed out Peters.

Caplin nodded. "Noted. But get her collared first thing in the morning. I don't want any 'accidents' befalling Chandra's people. The girl is yours to control as long as the breeding project is not hindered in any way. However - " and here he turned to Chandra once more, "- the same goes for Wolverine, doctor. Do whatever you deem necessary as long as his mission capability is not compromised."

Chandra nodded. "I understand."

She turned back to the screen, her mind already ticking over with ideas to try out on her two new guinea-pigs. If all went according to plan, she hoped to see Wolverine's female heavy with his first child within six months ….

**NEXT: **Jubilee and Wolverine! The collar! Gosh, it's all happening in the next chapter!


End file.
